


gnashing teeth and criminal tongues

by allirica



Series: we can be heroes verse [6]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Teen Wolf (TV), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - No Werewolves, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Attempted Sexual Assault, BAMF Stiles, Blood, Blood and Violence, Canon-Typical Violence, Crossover, Crossover Pairings, Explicit Sexual Content, Explosions, Fire, Gore, Graphic Description, Graphic Description of Corpses, Guns, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Hydra (Marvel), I swear this isn't as dark or angsty as it sounds, Injury, M/M, Marvel Universe, Mind Control, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, Needles, Past Mind Control, Post-Break Up, SHIELD, Sexual Tension, Snipers, Switching, Torture, Versatile Steve Rogers, Versatile Stiles Stilinski, Violence, Weapons, it's gonna be a lot happier than the last fic i promise, just please read the warnings at the beginning of chapters for more info
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2020-04-22
Packaged: 2020-05-18 12:28:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 125,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19334524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allirica/pseuds/allirica
Summary: a direct follow up to 'I'm sure I used to be (so free)', picking up after Stiles decided to leave.***"He can’t go back.  He can’t be Stiles Stilinski anymore.  There’s blood on his hands and a war in his heart, and he can’t go back to that life, no matter how much he misses the people he cares about with a harsh, aching ferocity.So he keeps moving instead, with no real destination in sight.  He’ll keep trying to outrun everything that happened, everything he did, until he can’t run anymore."***Not as dark or angst-filled as the tags imply, but please check the warnings at the beginning of each chapter.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Inell](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inell/gifts).



> hello!
> 
> Here is the first chapter to the follow up to 'I'm sure I used to be (so free)'. I decided to start posting now and split the Allison-centric story into two separate fics, so the second one won't give any spoilers for this fic. But please do read the Allison-centric parts of this 'verse, I would really appreciate it!
> 
> I hope you enjoy this fic. It will be longer than the last, similar in length to 'charge me up (like electricity)'. Please comment/give feedback if you can, I truly appreciate every single reader of this 'verse! <3
> 
> Please note: Not as dark or angst-filled as the tags imply, but please check the warnings at the beginning of each chapter. 
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: graphic imagery, violent imagery, violence, blood, stab wounds, death (in a nightmare), nightmares, gore, aftermath of mind control.

_“Stiles.”_

_Allison’s voice is a choked gasp, drenched in shock and pain. He can feel her against him, her fingers clutching at his jacket, her blood sliding wetly against the leather. When he steps back, he can feel the jerk of the knife, can hear the agonized sound that snaps between her teeth as she twitches._

_Her knees give out and he catches her, cradling her carefully as he lowers her to the ground. She’s folded her hands over her stomach but blood, hot and thick and vibrant, spills between her fingers, staining her pale skin vivid red._

_She’s pleading with him, eyes wide and scared, and she’s losing too much blood; he can see it, the way her gaze starts to go hazy, her face clammy and ashen. He presses down on her hands but it’s too late; even as her blood laps at his skin, he knows it’s no use. Her eyes close and her breath stops. He scrabbles at her wrist, desperation strangling him as he searches for a pulse he knows he won’t find._

_She’s dead._

_He stares at her body and it feels like he’s being torn apart, split wide open to expose his withered, dying heart. He looks at his hands. They’re shaking and covered in slick red. Blood._

_Allison’s blood._

He wakes up to darkness.

The room is silent. Despite the muggy weather, the window is shut and the flimsy curtains are drawn; he’s on the third floor, higher than any streetlamps, and it’s cloudy enough that the moon doesn’t provide any light. For a moment, Stiles lies still, waiting until he can breathe without feeling like he’s choking on his own lungs and his pulse stops thundering. 

Then he sits up, kicks off the thin, scratchy blanket that had been tangled around his ankles, and swings his legs over the side of the bed, leaning forward slightly. Sweat clings to his skin and the air in the small room is thick and stale; it feels like the damp heat is sticking like wet cotton in his lungs, prickling at the back of his neck. He stretches his hands out in front of him, studying every inch of skin for any sign of blood. His palms are clammy, but when he turns them over to look at them, there isn’t a single droplet of red marring the pale, rough flesh. 

This is why he’d sprung for a private room. He has enough trouble sleeping just knowing that he’s in a building surrounded by other people; it goes against all of the instincts that SHIELD drilled into him. He’d learned pretty quickly during his brief stay at the hostel in Moscow that he can’t sleep when there are other people – total _strangers_ – in the room with him. Especially when those strangers are stinky, snoring travellers. 

At least he had the option of a single, private room at this hostel, rather than having to stay in one of the larger, dormitory style spaces. His nightmares aren’t disturbing anyone but himself.

He reaches out to switch on the light. The clock on the wall tells him it’s just past two in the morning. He knows he won’t be able to sleep; the impulse to run, to _get away_ , the knowledge that he’s not safe, that he’s vulnerable in places like this, is scratching under his skin, sharp, demanding little needles poking at the base of his skull. It’s that need to keep moving that’s been driving him for the past two months, following him from country to country, from city to town, haunting him no matter how many boats or trains he takes, trying hard to outrun the ghosts snapping at the back of his heels.

He knows he won’t be able to get back to sleep.

Instead, he gets to his feet and stretches, arching his spine as he digs his toes into the thin, rough carpet beneath his bare feet. It’s the early hours of a Wednesday morning and the hostel is in a small town rather than a city, so, unlike the various others he’s stayed in over the past couple of months, the rooms around him are quiet; no partying, no drunken people staggering back to their rooms, no loud sex or arguments. The silence should be peaceful but, combined with the thick pressure of the muggy heat, it just feels oppressive. 

Noise means people. It means safety. Silence just makes him feel isolated and vulnerable.

Sighing, he strips off his shirt; it’s damp with sweat and he tosses it aside, but leaves his sleep shorts on. For a moment, he considers going for a run, but he doesn’t want to leave his scant belongings alone – the hostel is one of the nicer ones he’s stayed in, but he’s a cynic by nature – and he doesn’t really want to go outside either, where the heat will be even more suffocating. He goes through his usual warm up stretches instead, the movements so familiar now that his body performs them almost on automatic.

After, he starts in on push ups. The cheap carpet scratches his palms and, this close to it, he can smell the faint, lingering scent of cigarette smoke clinging to the nylon. He stares at the faded swath of grey as he keeps going, repeating his usual number of reps, controlling his breathing as fresh sweat starts to prickle at his skin. He moves on, doing sets of both traditional and split squats, then runner’s crunches, burpees and push ups, mountain climbers; he goes through a set of martial arts techniques, throwing jabs and kicks, pushing his body until sweat slides down his spine and his body feels hot. He uses the doorframe for pull ups, holds a series of planks, and performs his usual cool down before sitting back against the wall, trying to catch his breath. 

There was a time when he wasn’t a huge fan of exercise, especially core and strength workouts. He’d been on the lacrosse and track teams in high school and he’d enjoyed running, but that was pretty much the limit when it came to keeping fit. Now, though, he keeps on top of working out, switching it up occasionally but sticking to what he can do without equipment, no matter where he is; it helps, pushing his body in order to quiet his mind, exhausting himself until he stops thinking about the dreams, about Julia, about everything he left behind in New York. 

Besides, he needs to keep in shape, and he can’t let the skills SHIELD and the Avengers taught him get rusty. He needs to be ready for anything and everything.

The sun starts to rise at four. Stiles stays against the wall, his forearm leaning over his propped up knee, as he watches the first rays of light slant through the thin curtains, a brighter beam slitting through the crack in the middle where he hadn’t quite shut them fully before going to bed. He stares until his eyes start to hurt from the brightness and, when he closes them, he can still see a square patch of light against the back of his eyelids. 

Eventually, he pushes up to his feet. He grabs two energy bars and a bottle from his backpack, swallowing down both bars despite their sticky, chewy texture, and washes them down with water, emptying the bottle. At exactly five-fifty AM, he packs up his backpack and leaves the room, locking up behind him before slipping down the empty corridor to the shared bathroom. 

At this hour, it’s empty, and he hangs up his backpack before stepping into one of the shower cubicles. The water pressure isn’t great but he doesn’t have to wait forever for the icy temperature to warm up. His shower is quick and perfunctory and by the time a couple of sleepy, dishevelled tourists stumble into the bathroom to pee and clean up ready for a day of sightseeing, Stiles is dry and dressed. They barely notice him and don’t acknowledge him beyond a bleary blink and a greeting in stunted, uncertain German. Stiles brushes his teeth at the sink and grabs his backpack, double checking it before he leaves the bathroom. He slides on a pair of sunglasses and a cap as he pushes out into the stairwell that leads downstairs. 

There’s a continental breakfast included in the room price, but already, a few travellers have found their way downstairs to take advantage of the huge spread, so Stiles heads straight to the check in area. He’d chosen this hostel for numerous reasons – the location, the quietness, and the single room availability being just a few of them – but the driving factor behind his decision had been the option of self-service checking in and out. He doesn’t look at the camera tucked into the corner of the ceiling to his right as he approaches the terminal and checks himself out; he pays the rest of his charge for the room in cash, stuffing bills into the money slot, and deposits his key into the safety box, listening to it rattle as it drops on top of several others, ready to be collected by an employee later.

It’s not even seven in the morning yet, but already, it’s hot outside. There aren’t any clouds in the sky to provide relief from the searing sun and it glares down over the small town, filling the streets with thick, stifling heat. There’s no breeze, no movement to stir the muggy air, and it’s almost suffocating. It promises a scorching hot day, ideal for those visiting for a relaxing vacation, not so much for the backpackers and travellers looking to go sightseeing on foot.

Stiles tugs the brim of his cap a little lower and sets off. The town is just starting to wake up, businesses and cafes and tourist spots opening ready for a hopefully lucrative day, but there isn’t much traffic on the roads and even less footfall on the sidewalks. It’s a thirty minute walk to the train station and stepping inside it is a relief; there’s an air con unit gently _whooshing_ above the main entrance and it spills refreshing, cool air over Stiles’s skin. He’s never been hugely tolerant of hot temperatures and a tight knot has begun squeezing behind his eyes, the beginnings of a heat headache throbbing at his temples.

There’s a small bathroom and he checks that the tap water is safe for drinking before he fills up his water bottle at the sink. The first sip is heaven; clean, crisp water, pulled straight from a nearby reservoir. He gulps down half of the bottle before topping it up and tucking it back in the mesh holder on the side of his backpack.

There isn’t a ticket machine in the station; instead, he joins the short queue in front of a service window. A middle aged, bored looking man sits behind it, bald head shining with sweat and oval, frameless glasses perched on his nose. The lenses are a little thick, making his blue eyes look slightly too big for his face, and he blinks expectantly when Stiles takes his turn at the window. He doesn’t look surprised when Stiles talks to him in almost fluent German, just prints the requested ticket.

“Neununddreißig euro,” he intones.

Stiles slides two twenty euro notes through the gap at the bottom of the window. “Stimmt so.”

He gives a single nod and nudges the ticket through the gap. Stiles palms it, offers a quiet “Danke”, and steps out of the station to wait, standing under a tree to try and avoid the intense sun. He hasn’t got any sunscreen on him and he makes a mental note to buy some at his next stop. He always blisters in the sun. He never tans; he’s either pale or a lobster, there’s no middle ground for him.

The platform fills with a small crowd. Mostly tourists and backpackers; it’s easy to pick them out and differentiate. The tourists are dressed in tacky shorts or capris and flip flops, with ugly sun visors or caps, blatant logos on their shirts and camera phones in their hands. It’s even easy to figure out where the tourists are from; he knows whether the people he’s looking at are American, British or from elsewhere in Europe, without having to hear them speak. The backpackers are scruffier, with sensible walking boots and questionable personal hygiene; huge, overstuffed backpacks weigh them down and they have little pamphlets in their hands, mapping out their route. 

The train they’re waiting for is more for tourists than for locals, offering scenic views, so Stiles can’t see anyone dressed for work, but he can pick out a few people who probably live in the nearby town and are starting on a day out, taking advantage of the nice weather. 

Stiles knows what he looks like. He’s alone and he has a single backpack with him; he falls easily into the solo traveller category. If he relaxes his expression and his posture, he can pass as younger, too, someone who can be assumed to be a student, travelling Europe during a gap year. He doesn’t try to hide any details that give away where he’s from. That would just look _more_ suspicious. Instead, he looks all-American in cargo shorts, a Hollister shirt, sneakers, and his Mets cap and large, obnoxious sunglasses. 

The trick to going unnoticed isn’t to hide, but to _blend in_ , and no one looks twice at another American backpacker boarding a popular tourist train. 

He finds a car that isn’t too busy and drops down into a seat next to the window. A few minutes later, the train jerks forward, wheels rattling on the track as it starts to move, speeding up into a smooth glide once it’s free of the station. The ticket conductor starts shuffling down the aisles and Stiles slides his ticket to the edge of the small table in front of him. The man barely pauses, just checks the ticket, punches it, and returns it to the table before moving on. Stiles crumples the ticket into a ball and shoves it into his pocket.

There’s a family of four crowded around the table across the aisle from Stiles, a couple seated a little further down, and a group of three backpackers clustered near the doors to the carriage. Stiles lets his gaze flash over them, checking their expressions, their posture, before he identifies each exit from the train, calculates the thickness of the windows and the speed the train is going, locates possible weapons he could use. 

He absorbs all of the information in a minute and he just wants his brain to shut the fuck _up_ for once.

He tips his head back against his seat and closes his eyes. The window next to him is hot, the glass heated by the sun, and he can feel the warmth on his skin, can see the brightness even through his eyelids, staining everything dazzling red. 

***

He knows where he’s going. He knows what he plans to do when he gets there; explore the towns and the castles just like any other tourist. He doesn’t know what he’ll do after that. He’ll just keep moving, keep running, the same way he’s been doing since he left his SHIELD badge and Steve’s dog tags behind him and walked away. 

He’d gone from state to state first before leaving the country altogether. He’s been to Zurich, to Finale Ligure, spent time in Florence, Salzburg, Maastricht, Reykjavik, Siberia, Moscow, Bucharest, Kraków and Berlin. He doesn’t stop for long, mostly passing through, sleeping in hostels and motels, keeping his head down and his feet moving. He’s adept at avoiding attention and even more skilled at avoiding cameras and authority; he knows SHIELD and Tony will be trying to track his movements, trying to find out where he is, but he’s a natural chameleon. He’s practically invisible, leaving no trace behind as he moves from place to place. 

He’d spent his twenty seventh birthday in a cheap hotel in Bratislava. To anyone that asked, his name had been Justin Bellamy, he’d been twenty five, and he was a Canadian tourist rather than American. 

He can’t go back. He can’t be Stiles Stilinski anymore. There’s blood on his hands and a war in his heart, and he can’t go back to that life, no matter how much he misses the people he cares about with a harsh, aching ferocity. 

So he keeps moving instead, with no real destination in sight. He’ll keep trying to outrun everything that happened, everything he _did_ , until he can’t run anymore. 

What happens then, he doesn’t know. He doesn’t _want_ to know. Deep down, he knows he can’t run forever. His hands will always be stained red. He can’t run away from himself, no matter how hard he tries; grief and rage is a constant shadow on his heels, a sickness twisting and writhing inside his ribcage. He’s running without purpose, without a finish line in sight, but sometimes, in the dead of night, when he’s surrounded by a strange city and complete strangers, he knows he’s running straight towards death.

The knowledge doesn’t slow him down.

***

The views of the Rhine Valley are as spectacular as the tourist pamphlets had promised. He steps off the train in Koblenz and there’s no relief from the still, scorched air inside the carriage; the sun is high in the searing blue sky and there’s no breeze to stir the heat or offer a breath of coolness to Stiles’s skin.

It’s hot enough that the surface of the sidewalk is slightly melted and sticky, sucking at the worn soles of Stiles’s battered sneakers as he walks. Within minutes, sweat pools on the back of his neck and he keeps his water bottle in hand, regularly drinking from it to keep hydrated. He swings by a store to buy sunscreen, slathering it onto his exposed skin, but the heat still feels oppressive and suffocating, thick and scorching in his lungs when he breathes. 

He joins a cluster of tourists at Deutsches Eck and stands right at the point, scraping his palms against stone as he leans forward and gazes out at the water, watches the flow where the Mosel river meets the Rhine. There are no ripples across the surface; it’s smooth and still, reflecting the sky above it, rays of sunlight bouncing off it and sparkling like splintered crystal. A boat glides past, churning up froths of water underneath it, and Stiles can see cable cars in the sky, drifting through the air. 

If he was really a tourist, he’d want to go up there and ride one of the cars; he knows the view of the rivers and the town and the hills in the distance must be spectacular, and he’d loved to get a bird’s eye view of the Ehrenbreitstein Fortress. But a closed box, high up above the water with nowhere to go, isn’t exactly safe; he feels vulnerable enough on trains and boats, but he’s actively trying to avoid planes and other places where, if cornered, he has no way of escaping. 

Instead, he turns to a family of tourists; the kids are running around screaming and leaning over the barriers, and the parents are oblivious, too busy arguing in furious whispers that they apparently think can’t be overheard by the people around them. Neither of them notice when Stiles walks past, discreetly palming the map sticking out of the woman’s purse, and he keeps moving until he’s out of their view before he stops to look at it.

It’s a quick enough boat trip to Stolzenfels and then a short walk to the castle, but the heat makes it seem like longer. It’s May, so a heatwave like this is unusual for the country’s usual climate, but he can tell from the steadying increase in temperature and the constant pressure that it’ll break soon. After that, it’ll be storms and rain, back to spring showers before summer kicks in properly. 

The castle is beautiful. There’s information available on the castle’s history, but Stiles already knows it from one of his history binges years ago, the facts he’d poured over tugging free from the depths of his memory as he walks around. He’d never thought he’d ever get to visit the castle in real life. It had been rebuilt in a Gothic Revival style in 1842 by the Prussian Crown Prince Friedrich Wilhelm and he soaks in every detail, traces his fingers over old, cool stone and thinks about how long the castle has stood here, resistant to time and to the elements, a whole history contained inside its walls. 

Stiles closes his eyes and imagines what that would feel like.

After, he boards a day river cruise to go castle hopping and it’s a nice distraction, taking in the view of all the castles, some still intact and reminding Stiles of something out of a fairytale, and others nothing more than ruins. He has to look away from those ones.

He eats at a small bistro and pays for a bed in a hostel. There aren’t any single rooms available; he snags the bottom bunk in a shared, dormitory style room instead. He’s sharing it with five others, a group of three college friends doing a backpacking tour of Germany, and a couple on a romantic European adventure. 

They try to talk to him, which isn’t unusual; there’s a friendly atmosphere in a lot of hostels Stiles has visited, full of travellers eager to make new friends and swap tips and stories. Sharing a room with strangers is a good way of making connections and finding out the best spots to visit. Stiles gives short, clipped answers and, soon enough, they leave him alone. 

There’s a paperback in Stiles’s backpack, bought from a thrift store in Berlin. He only keeps one book on him at a time; he buys them from thrift stores and, when he’s done, donates them to another. It’s a ghost story set in a small town in rural Germany in the 1800’s; he’d chosen it because of it’s interesting cover, rather than bothering to read the blurb. His German is excellent but not completely fluent, but he can follow the story well enough, and he turns his back to the room and focuses on the tiny print in front of him.

The couple fall asleep by nine-thirty. The three friends are getting ready to go out, however; it’s a weeknight, but they’re obviously eager to explore the local night scene. Stiles listens to them pound back shots of cheap vodka and closes his eyes, lets tipsy laughter and the clink of glass lull him to sleep. 

***

_Julia’s hand is a light, cool pressure on Stiles’s shoulder._

_The touch sends a shudder skidding down his spine. He’s already cold, frozen from the inside out, and he doesn’t think the ice inside his veins will ever thaw. The coolness of her skin is uncomfortable, but he doesn’t shift away from her palm, no matter how much he wants to. Instead, he leans into it, feels a curl of desperation in his chest; he wants her approval. He needs her approval. He thinks he would kill for it._

_He HAS killed for it._

_“You would never betray me, would you?” she asks._

_Her voice is soft and sweet, breath ghosting over the shell of his ear, and Stiles turns slightly to look at her. He sees blood, spitting past her teeth and dribbling down her chin, spilling out of a gunshot wound in her chest. He jerks slightly, blinks, but she just smiles at him, serene and comforting._

_“You won’t leave me?” she continues._

_He opens his mouth, tries to say something, but the words choke in his throat. He can taste copper on his tongue. She reaches out, bloody hands cupping his face, streaking his cheekbones with vivid red as she leans closer._

_“You would never hurt me, would you, Stiles?”_

_He shakes his head. No, never, he could never, but he has, he did; the blood soaking into her shirt is because of him. He grips her wrists and her skin is thin and fragile, splitting under his fingers; her blood is hot, but he can’t feel a pulse. He hurt her. He’s still hurting her._

_Her eyes are wide and dark. “Do you love me?” she whispers._

_Stiles snaps back. A blast of fresh ice splits Stiles’s spine apart and shatters his ribs and he shakes his head, feels himself shake as he stares at her._

_“No,” he manages. “I don’t love you.”_

_She just smiles wider, teeth stained red, and her grip on his face tightens as she pulls him in. Cold, cracked lips slant over his, forcing his mouth open. He can feel her tongue against his own, can taste her blood in his mouth, and she’s filling him, sliding inside of him, insidious and vindictive, stuffing herself inside of his mind and his body and soul. She slithers down his spine and curls around his heart, making her home there._

_He hears her laughing. He can feel the vibration of it in his teeth as she sinks her own into his lip, not letting go even as a pained sound rattles in his throat. She draws blood until it mingles with hers, slipping down both of their throats. They’re entwined together, body and mind, flesh and blood._

_She consumes him._

***

The room is dark when he wakes up.

Sweat clings to his skin and soaks his shirt, and he’s breathing too quickly, the rasp of it loud in the silence of the room. He doesn’t sit up but he lifts his hands, squinting until he can make out their shape in the darkness. Slowly, he spreads his fingers and curls them as he counts, all the way up to ten, over and over again until he can breathe properly and the dizzying panic drips away from him.

It takes longer for the trembling to stop. The rough whisper of a blanket shifting snaps his attention back to his surroundings, but he knows the couple across the room are still asleep; he can tell from the deep, even rhythm of their breathing. The three friends are still out. 

He doesn’t know how long he managed to sleep for, but he can tell from the exhaustion still clawing behind his eyes and the fogginess clouding inside his skull that it wasn’t for long. He does know that he won’t be able to get back to sleep, not after the nightmare he’s just broken out of.

The metal bunk creaks slightly as he climbs off it, but the couple don’t stir. Stiles is dressed in a T-shirt and his sleep shorts; he doesn’t sleep in less, always ensuring that he’s ready to move if he needs to. He quickly swaps the shorts for his cargo pants and tugs on his sneakers before leaving the room, his backpack slung over one shoulder and the key to the room in his pocket.

There’s a bar next to the hostel’s reception area and he makes his way there. It’s not too crammed, but there are a few people watching the sports on TV or playing pool, and a couple of groups of tourists settled on squishy armchairs chatting to each other. Stiles goes straight to the bar and waits until the bartender, a burly, stoic looking guy with a bright pink fauxhawk and a lip piercing, finishes serving a couple of girls before making his way over to Stiles.

He orders a beer and watches as the bartender’s hazel eyes narrow slightly, looking him over.

“I.D?” he grunts.

Stiles slides a wallet out of his pocket and tugs out a driver’s license, handing it over. According to the license, he’s Ryan Seybold, his permit was issued in Alberta, his birthday is the 21st of October, and he’s twenty six. His passport, documents, and every other piece of ID on him currently matches that information, but he’ll scrap all of them and change it when he moves on to a new area.

The bartender slaps the piece of plastic back onto the bar and grabs a glass. Stiles pries the license off the sticky surface and tucks it back into his wallet, giving the bartender a nod in thanks when a pint of beer is set down in front of him. The bartender gives a little grunt of acknowledgment before ambling back over to the girls.

There’s plenty of things about Germany that Stiles appreciates. The beer is one of them. It’s dry and hoppy and nothing like his favorite beer, the kind he drinks from the bottle with Scott, and that’s exactly what he needs; whenever he’s reminded of Scott, or any of them, the void inside Stiles’s chest grows and grows. 

One day, it’ll swallow him whole.

He hooks his ankles around the legs of the stool and hunches over the bar, nursing his beer. The clatter of pool balls mixes with the cheering and whistles on TV and the buzz of conversation throughout the bar and he focuses on it, lets it fill his head until it’s all he can focus on and his mind, for a few brief, sweet moments, goes completely quiet.

A flash of yellow in the corner of his eyes snaps him out of it.

He turns his head to look at the girl standing next to him. She looks similar in age to him, with smooth, tanned skin, a spill of dark curls and warm brown eyes framed by long, thick lashes. She’s wearing a bright yellow sundress and sandals, exposing a flower tattoo spiralling from her left ankle to her knee, and a forest themed sleeve on her right arm. She offers a smile, showing perfect white teeth, and says something in stilted, uncertain German.

Stiles stares at her, mentally cataloguing her posture and expression. She’s tall and slender, soft rather than muscled, and she has perfect posture, but it shows a history of dancing or yoga rather than the stance of a trained fighter. She looks hesitant, a little anxious but mostly excited, her gaze softened by a couple of strong drinks. 

She isn’t a threat. 

When Stiles doesn’t answer her, she tilts her head slightly. “English?” she asks hopefully. An accent curls around her voice; Spanish, Stiles thinks. When he nods, she smiles. “Great. My German is terrible.”

Stiles just blinks at her and she shifts slightly, tapping her fingernails on the bar. They’re bitten down and painted a bright, shiny pink, the polish chipped slightly. Silver bangles rattle on her thin wrist. She bites her lip.

“Hi,” she offers, edging more towards nervousness now. “I’m Marisol.” She sits gracefully on the stool next to his, body tilted to face him. “I, uh, I don’t normally do this, but my friends and I,” she gestures over her shoulder at a group of five people all watching the two of them, “we saw you sitting here all alone and you looked…well, lonely. I wondered if you’d like some company.”

She’s flirting. She isn’t lying, either; she isn’t used to approaching someone and she looks nervous, the couple of beers she’s had not doing much to take the edge off her shyness, but she’s interested in him, spinning a lock of hair around her finger as she offers him a smile. 

A few years ago, Stiles wouldn’t have picked up on her flirting; he would have been confused and surprised that a gorgeous girl was even talking to him. A few years ago, he would have choked on his own tongue in his eagerness to talk to her and flirt back. 

Now, however, he looks at her beautiful face and feels panic scrape across his ribs. Her eyes are a rich, sparkling chestnut and her hair a glossy brown and both remind him too much of Julia, and she’s too _close_ , close enough for him to feel the warmth of her body and hear the rustle of her dress as she rubs at her legs nervously, uncertain by his silence.

“Sorry,” he manages, abandoning his beer as he gets to his feet. “I…can’t.”

He almost runs from the bar, fuelled by a desperate, wild need to get away, to get _out_. He doesn’t stop until he’s outside of the building, stars splattered across the sky above him and the air still too warm, wrapping around him as he leans back against the wall. Rough brick scratches the bare skin of his arms and he closes his eyes, letting the sensation ground him, anchoring him while panic threatens to strangle him.

He loses track of time as he stands there, focusing on each breath in and out of his lungs, trying to snuff out the panic and desperation battering inside his chest. He feels too full of energy, like his legs are burning and his spine is splitting through his skin, adrenaline pumping through him as that wild, sharp need comes down on him again, telling him to _run, run, run_ and never stop.

Something warm and wet hits his cheek.

Stiles opens his eyes. Thick clouds are rolling across the sky. Another fat droplet of rain lands on his face, then another, and another. In the distance, he can hear the low, warning rumble of thunder. The heatwave is finally breaking, a storm splitting the scorching temperature, ready to spill rain and lightning across the town. 

He digs his hand in his pocket and curls his fingers around the room key, letting it’s teeth bite into his skin hard enough to leave sore indents. When he goes back inside, it isn’t to go to bed; instead, he deposits the key behind the reception counter and leaves again, his backpack a solid weight on his shoulders as he walks. It’s raining heavily now, the water sluicing down his skin and soaking through his shirt. 

It’s time to move on.

***

Three weeks later, Stiles boards a train in Prague.

Since Germany, he’s travelled through Luxembourg, Belgium and Olomouc before staying for a few days in Prague. He’s been following the impulse to keep moving, moving from place to place without much of a final destination in mind.

Now, however, he can admit that, for the first time, he knows exactly where he’s going. 

It’s risky. He knows it is. He doesn’t really know _why_ he’s suddenly so determined to find the cottage in Normandy that his great grandmother used to own, but he feels a desperate, almost wild need to see it, to _be there_ , at the beautiful little stone building his mom used to tell him about. He can’t visit her grave – visiting his home town would be too dangerous when he’s trying to avoid being noticed – but he can explore this connection to her. She’d always wanted to take him to the cottage someday, but she’d never got the chance. Now, he can go there himself and see the trees where she used to play, feel the cool sea breeze in his hair, just as she described. 

He doesn’t know who the cottage belongs to now. His great grandmother died when his mom was just fourteen. His grandma on his mom’s side had died before he was born and his grandfather passed when he was just three. After his mom died, he’d never thought to ask his dad about extended family on his mom’s side, or whose hands the cottage had fallen into after his great grandmother passed away. It’s likely it’s owned by total strangers now. 

But he needs to see it.

The first train journey from Prague to Paris is the riskiest part; with the three changes he has to make, the total trip will take around fourteen hours. Most of that time will be spent inside a compact carriage moving at incredible speeds. He doesn’t like being hemmed in for long periods of time, especially when he hasn’t got safe exit options. 

It’s nearly June, summer thick and sticky in the air, and the train car is full of tight, heavy heat. It’s uncomfortable and Stiles tips his body away from the window. Even with his shades on, the sun is too bright, searing through the glass. Golden light spills across the narrow table in front of Stiles. There’s a polystyrene coffee cup between his palms, heated from the sun rather than the bitter swill inside it, but he drinks it anyway. He hasn’t been sleeping well and he’s exhausted, but there’s no way he’ll be able to sleep on the train, surrounded by people; he feels too vulnerable. He needs the caffeine.

Forced to sit still for hours, he wishes he had a laptop or a phone. He’d ditched technology when he left New York. Cell phones make it way too easy to be tracked. It’s why he’s been paying with cash rather than using a credit card that would, admittedly, be super easy to set up under a fake name; cash makes him a hell of a lot more untraceable. But he’s not good at being still for so long. His knee starts bouncing slightly, old fidgeting habits crawling under his skin as he tries to get his mind to settle. 

The burning itch eases when he finally arrives in Paris. It’s dusk, too late to do any sightseeing, and, generally, he’s trying to avoid visiting the same place too frequently, but he thinks he might come back to the city again soon. He’s always wanted to do the tourist stuff, visit the Eiffel Towel and the museums, and this really isn’t how he ever expected he’d finally get to do it, but it’s not like he’s got anything else but time now.

He knows he won’t be able to sleep, so he doesn’t waste money on a hostel. Instead, he spends the night walking, just wandering aimlessly. His feet ache and he’s tired, but he keeps going, maintaining a sedate pace. It isn’t exercise, not really; it isn’t strenuous enough. But the movement is good, focusing his mind, silencing the spiral of thoughts for a while. It’s Friday and there’s plenty of people around, spilling out of bars and clubs, and the city is still lit up. It’s beautiful. 

He walks past it all and no one spares him a second glance. The anonymity is everything he’s striving for, everything he needs.

It hurts.

By the time dawn starts to crack open the darkness, painting streaks of vibrant, summery pink and purple and gold across the sky, he’s sat on a bench, gazing down at his hands. As the sun rises higher into the sky, people start passing him on the sidewalk, not even noticing his presence, and it’s a sharp discordance, how separate he feels from these people, how disconnected he feels from society, even as he slips into the stream of foot traffic, blending in like he’s one of them.

He doesn’t really feel human anymore.

He’s a chasm, dark and empty, held carefully between brittle ribs and thin flesh. It’s pulling him down, sucking in everything he used to be and suffocating it, and one day, there won’t be anything left. The emptiness will split through his skin, spilling out of him like blood and guts, and it will consume him until there’s nothing, until _he’s_ nothing. 

Just a void, wandering from city to city like a ghost.

***

At nine o’clock, he boards a train, and two and a half hours later, he’s in Bayeux. There’s some time before he has to catch the bus, but he doesn’t leave the station, not interesting in exploring. He swallows down some food, refills his water bottle, and tucks himself away in a quiet corner with a book. This one is another paperback, a noir fiction by a Romanian author, and he has to work harder to translate it; his Romanian isn’t as solid as his grasp of other languages. He likes that, though. He’s forced to really focus, everything else that’s crammed inside his head fading away for a while as he reads.

He’s halfway through it when he has to stop and tuck it into his backpack. He makes his way to the bus station, arriving just as the 74 pulls in, doors folding open with a sharp hiss. He requests his ticket and watches it spew out of the little machine as he hands the driver a five euro note to cover the fare.

“Gardez la monnaie,” he murmurs, tucking his ticket into his pocket before taking a seat towards the front of the bus.

It’s not too crowded, so no one sits next to him, and he shifts so his back is against the window. He can feel the warmth of the glass kiss his skin through the thin fabric of his T-shirt and it’s not the most comfortable position, but it means he can keep an eye on anyone behind him. 

The drive to Arromanches-les-Bains takes just twenty minutes. The bus is old; the engine is loud, the vibration of it rattling Stiles’s teeth, and he bounces slightly in his seat every time they hit a bump or pothole in the road. When it pulls over at the stop, Stiles stands, slinging his backpack over one shoulder and offering the driver a quick “Merci” before he climbs down the steps.

It’s early afternoon and the sky is a swath of clear, dazzling blue, the sun scorching. But the heat is mitigated here by a cool breeze rolling off the ocean and the sidewalk is shaded slightly by buildings as Stiles walks.

It’s a small, rural town, tucked in by the cliffs and pressed almost right up against a stretch of beach. It’s tidy and quaint, with beautiful buildings, and it offers a view of the cliffs and an expanse of tall, lush grass. The ocean is a sheet of dazzling blue; on a day like this, it’s hard to see the horizon where sea blends into sky. The surface of the water ripples slightly as it laps sedately at the shore, a rhythmic, reassuring whisper of sound. Stiles can hear gulls in the air and people on the beach, and the taste of salt is sticky on his lips. 

It’s peaceful.

Stiles follows a path up to the top of the cliffs and gazes out at the sea for a moment. He can’t see the cottage; it’s incredibly rural. Arromanches-les-Bains is just the closest town to it. He doesn’t know exactly where it is, but he knows enough from what his mom told him when he was a kid to have a general idea of which direction he needs to go in.

It takes an hour of walking for him to finally spot the building in the distance; it takes another thirty minutes for him to reach it. It’s tucked against a thicket of trees, a safe distance away from the edge of the cliffs without sacrificing a beautiful view. 

It’s small and squat, the majority of it built in old grey stone; a tiny square extension juts out from one side, built with a white and black timber frame instead of stone. He can tell the cottage used to have a thatch roof, but it’s been modernized, replaced with dark slate tiles. The windows are a little uneven, the frames sagging a little, and the front door is painted bright yellow. Some kind of plant crawls up one corner of the building, clinging to the worn stone, and the grass has grown over small, flat stones marking a path from the cottage to a series of little wooden stubs buried in the ground; what was probably, at one point, a fence and gate. 

For a moment, Stiles just gazes at the front door, making no move to cross the few feet separating him from it. It’s strange to see it, to take in all of the details his mom had described to him all those years ago. His mom had spent so many summers here, playing in the overgrown grass and gazing out of the old windows. 

It’s almost overwhelming. The connection he feels to his mom is sudden and intense and tears prickle at his eyes. 

The door opens and Stiles tenses, adrenaline snapping through him, his fight or flight response going into overdrive.

The woman that looks out at him is short, barely an inch over five foot, and plump, her face rounded and soft. He can’t pinpoint exactly how old she is; wrinkles line her face and crease the corners of her eyes and her hair is steel grey, but she could be anywhere between sixty and seventy. There’s something about her that seems younger than she probably is. 

For a moment, warm amber eyes just look at him. And then she smiles.

“Mieczyslaw,” she says. Her accent is distinctly American. “I’ve been expecting you for a while now. Come on in.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings in this chapter for: angst, graphic imagery, mention of blood, mention of scars, nightmares, panic attacks, aftermath of mind control, alcohol, and canon-typical violence.

A huge, overwhelming part of Stiles wants to turn and run.

Instead, he takes a step forward, fingers tight around the strap of his backpack. The woman looks at him expectantly, but she’s patient as he makes his way up the path towards her. He pauses a safe distance away, wary, and she either doesn’t notice or politely ignores his suspicion; smiling, she steps to the side, making space for him to enter the house.

He glances over his shoulder, eyeing the horizon, but he’s exhausted and curious. He steps past her, refusing to flinch when he hears the door close behind him. The hallway he’s in is narrow, leading to a flight of steep, rickety old stairs. There’s two doors to his left and one to his right, but both are closed, and with no windows, the hall is dimly lit and a little claustrophobic.

There are photos lining the faded floral wallpaper. He steps closer, looking at them; a lot of the people in them he doesn’t recognize, but he finds the ones with his mom in. Some of them are just her, others are her surrounded by family or friends, displaying her summers spent at the cottage as a child. There’s one of her playing in the grass, the ocean in the distance, her hair snatched into a wild mess by the wind. She looks so different – he’s never seen photos of his mom as a kid – but her eyes are the same, dark and full of life and humor. Her smile is familiar, too, even with a gap between her front teeth. 

“She was ten there,” the woman says. “The same summer she broke her arm after falling off her bike. This was taken the same year.” She points to another photograph, this time with three women standing with Claudia, one elderly and two adults. She taps the glass over one of the women. “This is me.”

Stiles looks closer. The two adults are like chalk and cheese; the one on the left looks a lot like the elderly woman, both of them tall and skinny, with bird like noses and graceful smiles, except the younger woman’s hair is dark instead of grey. The other woman is shorter and softer, with freckles and light hair held back in a braid. The only thing they share is the color of their eyes: brown and glittering with mischief. 

“You’re her Aunt Ruth.”

She glances at him. “She told you about me?”

“A little.”

He remembers a couple of stories about his grandmother and great aunt, little anecdotes his mom liked to tell him when he was a kid and had a hard time sleeping. The two of them had bickered and clashed, but had loved each other dearly. His mom had clearly been close to her aunt, spending a lot of time with her both at the cottage and back in the States, but Stiles had never met her. He’d never even thought about looking up his great aunt to see if she was still alive. 

“I’ve never met you,” he says, then pauses. “Have I?”

“Once, when you were a baby,” she replies. “I was the fourth person to ever hold you.”

He looks at her, unsure what to say to that. It’s weird to think that this woman is his great aunt. He sees the familiarity in her eyes and her smile, yet she still feels like a stranger. But she’d held him as a baby. She’d taken care of his mom as she’d grown up. She’s family. Stiles doesn’t exactly have much of that these days.

“I visited after you were born,” Ruth adds. “To see you. But then I moved here permanently. After our mother passed, the cottage was left to my sister. When Ellen passed…she left it to me in her will. So I chose to move here. I stayed in touch with Claudia for a while, but she dropped out of contact. I only knew she was…well, that she was gone, when I decided to look her up.” She clears her throat slightly. “You look tired, Mieczyslaw. I’ll make some tea.”

“Stiles,” he corrects. “It’s…I go by Stiles, actually.”

She gives him a strange look. “Stiles,” she repeats.

He shrugs. “I mean, my parents named me Mieczyslaw. No one outside of them ever pronounced it right and I got fed up of the mocking, so. I prefer Stiles.”

“Stiles it is,” she agrees. “Come on. You’re dead on your feet, aren’t you? Did you walk here from the town?”

Stiles nods, following her as she heads through one of the doors to their left. “Yeah. I, uh. I’ve been doing a lot of travelling lately, by foot mostly.”

“No wonder you look so exhausted. Go ahead, sit.”

They’re in a kitchen; it’s small and old fashioned, with a deep, farmhouse style sink and lots of pale, polished wood. Lace curtains hang over the windows and the tiles are patterned with little chickens. There’s a small, boxy TV on the counter, but no other modern appliances. A huge gas Aga is tucked in against one wall, near a small pantry that doesn’t have a door. With sunlight slanting through the window, the small room is light and airy, homely in a way that’s comforting.

A small, circular table is pressed up against the wall beneath the largest window. Stiles drops his backpack onto the floor next to it and sits down in one of the chairs. It’s made of wood and it’s hard against his ass, but it feels good to sit down. His feet are throbbing slightly in his boots. 

He’d got into a pattern of swapping out his clothes; washing his old ones in public laundromats and donating them to thrift stores after buying new, different ones. It’s like a new disguise each time. He’d switched his sneakers for a pair of boots more suited to walking a lot, but they still rub slightly at his heels. 

A kettle on the stove lets loose a piercing whistle, steam billowing out from the spout, and he flinches a little, hand twitching towards his lower leg. Unlike his sneakers, the boots are just tall enough to neatly conceal a small blade inside, but his initial shock from the sudden noise slips away before he can actually reach for it. 

Ruth is still blissfully refusing to acknowledge his twitchiness and he appreciates it. Since Germany, he hasn’t stayed anywhere for longer than two days, and, aside from the few instances where he’s had to ask for a ticket or talk to a cashier when buying supplies, he hasn’t really interacted with anyone. It’s been months since he last had a proper conversation with someone. It feels weird to be sat here and he’s tense, aware that once she finishes making tea, he’ll have to actually interact with her.

She sets two cups down on the table. They’re made from dainty china, white with a little floral pattern around the rim, and the handles are shaped weirdly, too narrow for even his slender fingers. He has to awkwardly hook his finger through one to slide his cup closer to him. Ruth gets settled on the chair across from him and spoons three sugars into her own mug before adding the tiniest trickle of milk possible.

After a moment, Stiles adds a couple of sugars to his own tea and stirs in a dash of milk. It’s hot, steam curling from the surface, but he brings it to his mouth anyway, blowing gently on it to cool the liquid before taking a sip. He’s never been a huge fan of tea – he’s always been sure his bloodstream is at least fifty percent coffee – but his throat is dry and it feels good to have a hot, slightly sweet drink. There’s a floral note to the blend that he isn’t sure he likes, but it’s still better than the few to-go drinks he’s had on his travels.

“You said,” he starts, but has to pause, clearing his throat. Talking feels rusty. “You said you’ve been expecting me. What did you mean?”

Because they may be related, but she doesn’t _know_ him. She’s only ever met him once, when he was a baby, and he doesn’t remember her. He doesn’t like the thought of her anticipating his visit to the cottage. It makes him feel predictable. 

It makes him feel vulnerable.

After all, Julia had known him intimately enough to anticipate his every move, right up until the end.

The reminder tastes like ash in his throat.

Ruth gazes at him for a moment. Her hair is the color of steel, glinting slightly where the sunlight catches it; it’s cut short, curling slightly behind her ears. Despite the wrinkles on her face and the softness to her jaw, the family resemblance to his mom is almost startling in its intensity. She’s wearing a pink, puffy sleeved blouse that his mom would have detested and a long, flowing floral skirt that she would have envied. Her fingers shake a little where they’re curled around her cup of tea.

_Arthritis_ , he thinks. It seems at odds with how young and healthy she seems otherwise, despite the grey hair and obvious signs of aging.

“When Claudia was sixteen,” she says finally. “She fell in love.”

Stiles blinks. He hadn’t known that; neither his mom or his dad had ever mentioned it. “With who?”

“A boy,” Ruth replies with a delicate little shrug. “He was sixteen, too. They went to school together. She fell head over heels with him, but he didn’t fall for her quite so deeply. He broke her heart. Do you know what she did?”

Stiles shakes his head.

“She ran away.”

He frowns, surprised. His mom never ran away from anything. She didn’t hide when she was upset, she didn’t back down from what she believed in, she never turned her back on the people she loved. And she never, _ever_ ran away. Even when she was sick, she faced it all with her gentle, unwavering strength. 

Ruth smiles slightly at his expression. “She was sixteen and her first love cheated on her,” she says. “So she ran to the place she felt safest. The place she was happiest. She took all of her savings from her part time job, boarded a plane, and hitchhiked her way right to this cottage.” 

Stiles’s memories of his mom are inconsistent at best, hazy and smudged at worst; some days, he can remember exactly what her perfume smelled like and how it felt when she washed his hair for him when he was sick. Other days, he can’t remember how warm her hugs were or the pitch of her voice when she was happy. But it’s still hard to imagine the woman he remembers as a young, naïve teenager, travelling across the Atlantic on her own to nurse her broken heart.

“Eleven o’clock at night and there’s a knock on the door,” Ruth continues. “I open it and there she is. Face covered in tears and a bag packed and held tight in her hand.”

“What did you do?” Stiles asks.

“I invited her in and I made her some tea.”

His gaze drops down to his cup. There’s a slight chip in the china, a tiny chunk missing from the rim, and he rubs at it with his fingertip. He doesn’t say anything so, after a moment, Ruth picks up the thread of conversation again.

“Then I called her parents, who were distraught and had already phoned the police to report her missing. She was in so much trouble. But she stayed the weekend before going home. I don’t know how or why being here helped heal her heart, but by the time she boarded her plane back, she was smiling again. She moved on. I’ve never known anyone be able to shake things off the way Claudia did. She was something else.”

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees hoarsely, smiling a little. “Dad always says that as well.”

Ruth nods slightly. She catches and holds his gaze. “Claudia was heartbroken. In her eyes, her world was shaken apart, and she felt pain like she’d never experienced before. And what did she do?”

Stiles looks around the kitchen, at the quaint décor hiding crumbling brick and mortar. “She came here,” he says quietly.

“And so did you.”

He finds her gaze again, opening his mouth, but no words come out. He doesn’t know what to say to that, how to begin to explain what had driven him to find the cottage and see it for himself, but he realizes he doesn’t need to. Ruth already knows. She already understands. 

She doesn’t know him. Yet she _knows him_.

“I watch the news, Stiles,” she says gently, nodding towards the clunky TV. “I saw the reports about you. About that woman. About those superheroes. I don’t know exactly what happened. I don’t think anyone knows everything about it, do they? Only you.”

Stiles swallows. He watches dust motes hang in the air, lit up by the sunlight streaming through the window. He shakes his head slowly. Not even Kowalski knows everything about Julia and how intimately she’d wrapped Stiles around her finger. He hasn’t looked up the news reports or the statements issued by the authorities; he knows his actions have been explained and pardoned, but he also knows that doesn’t mean he’s safe from public retribution. 

“But I saw,” she adds. “You were used and manipulated. You were hurt. You ran away. And I knew where you would go.”

“You knew that I would come here.”

“Just like Claudia.”

The urge to cry is sudden and intense. For a second, he wrestles with it, fighting back tears. His dad has told him, sometimes, how Stiles reminds him of his mom, has told him what traits they share, but Stiles has never really felt it. He never got to learn those things for himself, so they’ve always felt distant and disconnected. Any similarities to his mother felt disjointed, like he was echoing a ghost. 

But now, sat in this kitchen, he feels closer to her than he ever has before. Because they were both used and broken. They both, decades apart and separated by life and death, did the exact same thing. 

She came here. 

And Stiles followed.

“Are you gonna call my dad?” he asks, voice a little strangled from the tears he’s still fighting.

“Would you like me to?” 

He shakes his head. “No.” 

“Then I won’t,” Ruth assures him. “I won’t call anyone. But you’re free to stay here for as long as you need. The guest room is prepared for you.”

He swallows, looks away. “Thank you.”

They lapse into silence. Stiles drains the rest of his tea and sets the cup down. Warmth spills over his bare forearms from the sun and he closes his eyes, savouring it. For now, the urge to run has faded away to the back of his mind. He’s exhausted. He wants nothing more than to sleep, refuel, and do his best to just not exist for as long as possible.

For now, he can stay. He can rest.

“That woman,” Ruth says after a moment. “What _did_ she do to you?”

Stiles looks at her. Her dark eyes are curious and concerned, but not wary; she’s not afraid of him. He doesn’t know what to make of that. He thinks about Julia and the bunker, about the long, cold months spent sharing his mind with someone else. He thinks about the lingering taste of ash in his throat and how he can still feel the wet heat of her blood on his hands.

He offers her a small, bitter smile and shrugs slightly.

“She broke my heart.”

***

The spare room is small, with a sloping ceiling and exposed wooden beams. It’s well lit, with one large window facing the thicket of trees behind the cottage. A long, cushioned bench is tucked against the wall underneath it.

He wonders how often his mom would curl up on the bench as a child, watching the trees. She’d always loved the preserve in Beacon Hills, would take him on long walks there no matter the season, telling him about the different trees and the native wildlife. He remembers collecting acorn caps – ‘fairy cups’, his mom called them – and splashing in puddles. 

He can imagine her long summers in the spare room, gazing at the trees, exploring and memorizing them. Grief pinches in his chest and he has to take a moment to breathe, wrestling the urge to cry back down, smothering it deep down inside.

He’s not usually so emotionally fragile, but he’s so _tired_ , and left raw from his conversation with Ruth about his mom. He feels like all of his nerves are exposed, sparking with fresh, crackling pain. He wants nothing more than to curl up on the bed and sleep for hours, days, hell, weeks, even. But he knows the dreams won’t let him.

He drops his backpack down on the floor and moves to the window, gazing out at the trees. The sun is setting, dusk starting to spill towards the cottage, dazzling colours streaking across the sky. It’s mid-afternoon in New York; he wonders what his friends are doing, wonders how the tower renovations and team training is going. He wonders whether Steve is looking for him. 

He hopes he isn’t.

There are clean towels folded neatly on the end of the bench. Stiles takes them and heads down the hall to the bathroom. It’s small and just as old fashioned as the rest of the house, with cracked, floral tiles, lace curtains and an old claw foot tub. There’s no shower, so Stiles slots the plug into place. The taps squeak slightly as he turns them, but hot, clean water starts thundering into the bottom of the tub. 

He strips and folds his clothes to wash later. When the tub is full, he shuts off the taps and climbs inside. The temperature is a little too hot, stinging slightly, and his skin quickly turns pink. But it feels good, cleansing almost, washing away the sweat and grime and aches, leaving him raw and new. 

It’s so quiet. The cottage is far from civilization and, outside, the air is warm and still, no wind or breeze, not even the rustling of trees. The only sound that breaks the silence is the ripple of water as he moves and the occasional burst of bird song in the distance. His breathing seems too loud in the tiny room.

He lets himself slide down until he’s fully submerged, skull resting on the base of the tub. He holds his breath and keeps his eyes open, watching until the surface of the water above him goes still and calm again. He can’t hear anything anymore, the whole world silenced by the water, and he feels like he’s floating, far away from anything, far away from even himself. 

He doesn’t know how long he stays like that, but eventually the desperation for air is searing, and he sits back up, heaving in a deep breath. He shakes his head slightly and rubs a hand over his face to sluice off the water. Night has fallen outside and the water is cooling, so he finishes washing and climbs out, pulling the plug. He dries off and tugs on his sleep shorts and a shirt, leaving his hair damp as he returns to the spare room. 

Out here, in the middle of nowhere, the sky is clear enough to see the stars. The moon is full, giving enough light to silhouette the trees and stain the sky an inky dark blue. Stiles leaves the curtains open and climbs into the bed. The sheets smell a little dusty and motheaten, but they’re thin enough compensate for the summer heat and the mattress is more comfortable than anything he’s slept on in months. 

He rolls to his side, feels the aches slowly melt away from his body as he relaxes, and he gazes at the trees until he falls asleep.

***

_“Stiles.”_

_Steve’s so close. Even out in the open like this, he seems larger than life, filling up the space and sucking the air from Stiles’s lungs. His hair is almost golden in the sunlight, a hazy, pale halo, and his eyes are so blue. They don’t waver from Stiles’s face as he steps closer._

_“I know it hurts when you fight her,” he says. “But we need you to try. I need you to try.”_

_Stiles trembles. There’s a fire in his belly, smoke staining his throat and his teeth, and he opens his mouth, desperate to tell Steve that he would do anything for him. He’d crawl on his belly over broken glass if Steve only asked._

_But the words don’t come. His body isn’t his own anymore. It’s a prison; he’s locked away behind bone and scars, and he’s not alone. He can feel her, twisting around him, filling him, consuming him._

_Steve’s gaze flicks somewhere behind Stiles. He feels her press against him from behind a second later, body warm and solid against his. Her arms snake around him, hand pressing low and possessive on his belly, and her lips brush his ear. Her laugh is soft and pleased, full of victory, because she knows she’s already won._

_Stiles closes his eyes. When he opens them again, Steve is different. He’s wearing his uniform, his face hidden by the cowl. His shield is in his hands. Stiles looks at the star for a moment before lifting his gaze to meet Steve’s._

_Do it, he thinks. Do it, do it -._

_“Are you gonna kill me, Steve?” he asks. His voice isn’t his own. It’s hers._

_Steve swallows. “I can’t let you do this, Stiles.”_

_‘Then do it’, Stiles tries to say, but he can’t force the words past his teeth. Julia presses closer, scrapes her teeth against her ear as she murmurs to him, telling him to let go, to rip and tear and destroy. She tells him to kill Steve and the thirst for blood sings in his veins; he can almost taste Steve’s flesh between his teeth already._

_Steve lifts the shield. Opens his mouth, closes it, exhales slowly._

_He lowers it again._

_“I can’t,” he says quietly. “Damn it. I can’t.”_

_Stiles stares at him. Julia’s laugh is sharp and wild in his ear as he slides his hand into his pocket, pressing down on the control there. Explosions cut through the city, rocking the earth and sending fire and ruin into the sky. Buildings start to collapse around them, reduced to rubble in an instant, and even as the ground shakes, Stiles holds still and so does Steve._

_The city is being torn apart and they’ll go with it, but neither of them move. They stare at each other as the earth beneath them splits open, threatening to swallow them both whole._

_Steve drops the shield._

***

He wakes up crying.

The taste of copper is thick on his tongue and his stomach rolls, fear snapping through him, before he realizes it’s his own; in his effort to hold back his screams, he’d bitten his lip hard enough to break skin.

He feels the hot trickle slide down his chin and sinks back into the pillows, chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath. Sweat starts to cool on his skin and he closes his eyes, forces himself to relax as he waits for the storm behind his ribcage to die out. 

Eventually, he sits up again and swings his legs out of bed. The sky is already starting to lighten, gradually softening from dark navy to a hazy azure. It’s only three in the morning, but the summer sunrises are early here. 

He makes his way to the bathroom, cleaning his face up, and uses mouthwash to swill out the taste of blood on his teeth. He doesn’t want to wake Ruth, so he makes sure to be quiet, doing his best to avoid the creaky spots in the old floorboards as he makes his way downstairs.

He’s a little concerned about how dated the cottage is; it’s beautiful and cozy, comforting in a way he can’t quite put his finger on, but he might have to either wash his laundry by hand or hike back to the town to find a public laundromat. To his relief, though, he finds a washing machine and a dryer in a little utility room attached to the kitchen and he puts on his laundry to wash. 

Making coffee would mean using the old kettle to boil the water, which would wake Ruth up, so he finds a quart of orange juice in the fridge and pours himself a glass of that instead. It clashes with the minty aftertaste of the mouthwash and he pulls a face, but drains the rest of the juice and washes up the glass. 

With nothing left to do after that, he stands there for a moment, feeling a little lost. A few quiet, strange minutes tick by before he makes his way back upstairs. He tugs a pair of clean gym shorts and a battered pair of running shoes out of his backpack and changes quickly. 

When he leaves the house, the sky is even lighter, the first fingers of sunshine starting to reach over the horizon. The air is a little warm, but still, no breeze disturbing the trees or grass around him. He can hear the beginnings of bird song as he warms up before setting off. 

It feels good to run. He’s gone on jogs here and there, but mostly he’s kept his workouts inside, focusing on strength and self-defence training rather than cardio and stamina. He misses running properly, but it’s too risky; it makes him more vulnerable to being picked up and recognized by cameras. Out here, though, there’s no one to see him, no cameras or surveillance systems. He’s free to _really_ run and he pushes himself, relishing the sweat on his skin and rasp of air in his lungs, the heat and ache of his body as he nudges at his limit, refusing to break. 

The sun finishes rising as he runs, clearing the sky of any clouds and lifting it to a dazzling pale blue. The heat quickly becomes a little unbearable, the sun almost oppressive as it fills the sky and beats down on him, and there’s no breeze to cool the sweat on his skin or offer any relief. Eventually, he stops at the cliff edge he’s been running parallel to, bending to brace his hands on his knees as he struggles to catch his breath. He doesn’t know exactly how long he’s been running or how far he managed, but he thinks it’s around the hour and a half mark, and his mental calculations tell him he’s probably run around ten miles or so. His body isn’t quite used to it after months of going easy on the runs, so he has to take several minutes to recover, completely beat but a little euphoric, endorphins thundering through him.

He approaches the edge of the cliff, looking out at the view. The sea is completely calm, a swath of smooth, clear glass stretching into the horizon until it smudges into the sky. He watches birds loop gracefully through the sky, their squawks audible even from the distance. He takes another step forward, until the toes of his shoes nudge ever so slightly over the edge, long grass tickling his ankles. When he looks down, he can see all the way to the rocks below, the foamy sea lapping lazily at the cliff face. 

He closes his eyes and lingers there for several moments, suspended between solid ground and a drop into rocks and water below. Then he takes a deep, cleansing breath of salty sea air and steps back, opening his eyes.

He returns to the cottage at a sedate, easy pace. When he enters the kitchen through the back door, he’s relieved at how cool the interior of the cottage is, the old stone offering some relief from the heavy heat outside. He’s a little gross, skin slick with sweat, his hair plastered to his forehead, but Ruth just glances at him with a smile from her seat at the small table.

“Your hair needs cutting,” she informs him.

He runs a hand through it. “Probably,” he agrees. “Have you eaten?”

She shakes her head. She’s still in her dressing gown and slippers, glasses perched on the tip of her nose as she reads from an old, yellowed paperback book. “I thought I would wait for you.”

“I’m gonna take a quick shower and then I’ll cook for us.”

“You cook?” 

He pauses. “I used to,” he says finally. “Not in a while.”

He makes his way upstairs. While he was gone, she’d run his laundry through the dryer and left them folded on the bed for him in the spare room. He feels a little guilty – it isn’t her job to do those things for him, especially when she’s already opening up her home to him – but appreciative. He takes another bath, cleaning and freshening up from his run, and dries off before looking in the mirror, wiping the steam off the glass with his hand.

Ruth is right; his hair is definitely overdue a trim. It’s grown out from the style he’d cut it into during his time in hiding with Julia, but it’s not like his usual haircut, either; it’s a little too long, curling slightly over his forehead and behind his ears. Since leaving New York, his workouts have hardened his muscle a little, adding a little more definition to his abdomen, but he’s still lean, and a little tanned and sunburned from being exposed to the sun so much. 

There’s a slim scar on the underside of his bicep. He tilts his arm to look at it, running a fingertip along the smooth, pale flesh. There’s another scar, long and thin, on his forearm. There’s more on his palm, almost invisible but rough, from broken glass, and a small one on the back of his skull that’s hidden by his hair. 

He leans in closer to the mirror, gazes deeply into his own eyes, staring until he’s sure there isn’t a single glimmer of something cold and alien buried deep beneath the amber brown. He can’t say that they’re really alive, either, but that pain and anger is _his_ pain and anger, not the presence of someone else, and he clings to that knowledge as he leans his forehead against the warm glass, taking a deep breath to collect himself.

When he’d first joined SHIELD, Agent Morse had said that some of the worse scars from the job weren’t the physical ones. Stiles had thought he knew what she meant, but he didn’t _truly_ understand until he woke up in a hospital bed after killing Julia.

He turns away from his reflection. 

After getting dressed in the freshly laundered clothes and running a towel over his hair to dry it as much as possible, he goes back downstairs. Ruth is at the counter, finishing preparing some coffee in a cafetière. Stiles checks the fridge and grabs a few things, then washes his hands to get started. 

“You don’t have to cook,” she says, pouring two mugs of coffee.

“My way of saying thank you,” he replies. “For letting me stay.”

“You’re family. Stay for as long as you need.”

He doesn’t know what to say to that, so he stays quiet, focusing on mixing semolina with a bit of cold water, forming a smooth paste. Ruth sips her coffee and watches over his shoulder, curious, as starts to heat some milk on the stove, adding a pinch of salt.

“Porridge?” she guesses.

“Kasza manna,” he replies. “Something my dziadek taught me to make after he cooked it for me and my dad a couple of times for breakfast.”

“Dziadek?” she repeats, expression blank.

“My grandfather,” he clarifies.

“That’s nice,” she says. “Is he still…?”

He shakes his head. “He passed away,” he replies quietly. “The only family I have now is my dad. And…well, you.” 

“I’m sorry.”

Another thing Stiles has no idea how to reply to, so he doesn’t. He makes the blackberry syrup and finishes up the semolina, getting everything ready before placing the bowls on the table with spoons. Ruth carries the coffee over and sits down. 

“You’re an early riser,” she remarks, sipping from her mug.

“I never used to be,” he admits, shrugging slightly. “Nightmares.”

She nods. “I see. Hot milk helps with those.”

_What am I, five?_ The memory of his conversation with Steve slips through his mind and he looks down at his bowl as he tucks in. For a while, they eat in silence, but it isn’t awkward or uncomfortable; it’s companionable and the quiet is, for once, pleasant rather than oppressive. 

Stiles is the one to break it. “She didn’t just break my heart,” he murmurs.

Ruth looks up at him. Her brown eyes are kind, full of so much compassion that it’s difficult to meet her gaze, but he does. She offers a small, patient smile, so he continues.

“She tore it out. Slowly. Thoroughly. She carved it out bit by bit so there was room to stuff her own heart in its place. And the worse thing about it was that she made sure I wanted it. That I _enjoyed_ it.” He looks away at the admission, swallowing slightly. “She stole me. I didn’t even know until she decided it was time for me to acknowledge her possession. She took me and she took _from_ me, she stole and stole and stole until I had nothing else to give, and even killing her didn’t replace any of the things she ripped away from me. I’m still empty. Her heart has withered and died and now there’s nothing there. I’m just…a void.”

“I don’t believe that.”

His gaze snaps back to her. “What?”

“I don’t believe that,” she repeats evenly. “Not for a second.”

“ _Why_?”

“Because you ran away.”

He flinches slightly. “I didn’t…run _away_. That’s not what I…”

“There’s nothing wrong with running,” she says gently. “There’s not necessarily anything good about it, either. But sometimes it’s necessary. Or it feels like it is.” 

“That doesn’t change anything. It doesn’t change this…this emptiness inside of me.”

“That isn’t emptiness,” she replies. “Stiles, I look at you, and I see so many things, but definitely not emptiness. I see the opposite. You’re _full_. Full of grief and guilt, pain and suffering, confusion and loneliness, a hundred different things, and it’s choking you, isn’t it? That’s not emptiness.” She folds her hands on the table, looking at him, calm and steady. “You ran away from it all, to try and run away from all of that, but you can’t run away from _yourself_ , no matter how hard you try. You’re carrying it with you and, one day, it’ll drag you down for good. But Stiles, you ran because of your guilt. Because of your grief. That doesn’t sound like you’re empty. It sounds like there’s nothing left of her inside you. All that’s left is _you_. Because all of those emotions are yours and only yours.”

“I don’t feel like myself anymore. I’m not…I’m not _Stiles_. I can’t go back. So the only option I _have_ is running.”

“That’s not true,” she argues firmly. “You have so many options and you know it. And I think you _are_ you.”

“You don’t know me,” he says tightly.

She raises an eyebrow. “I think you’re more _you_ than you even realize, you’ve just never had to confront something like this before. But the things you feel and the way you’re handling it? That is entirely you.”

For a long moment, he just stares at her, a lump in his throat. His hands are trembling and he tucks them in his lap, curling his fingers into his palms until his fingernails start to bite into the thin, scarred flesh.

“You don’t know me,” he repeats, but it’s faint, unsure, and she smiles.

“I’ve lived for a long time, Stiles. I’ve seen a lot. I’ve been through a lot. I know grief and guilt when I see it. And I see so much of Claudia in you. That makes you more _you_ than anything else.”

He looks away, tears stinging his eyes. She doesn’t press further and they lapse into silence as Stiles turns her words over and over in his mind, trying to process them, trying to get them to fit with the storm of anger and guilt battering inside his ribcage.

He’s not ready. The hurricane howls louder, roars inside of him, but he tucks her words safely into the back of his mind. Someday, one day, when the storm is quieter, he’ll let them out again to think them over.

But not today.

***

He spends the day doing little fixes around the house.

He starts with one of the cupboards in the kitchen; the hinges are rusted, the door hanging off a little, and it’s easy enough to mend. He organizes the pantry, washes the windows, changes a couple of lightbulbs, removes spiderwebs from the beams around the cottage, and fixes the kitchen sink’s U bend, making his way through a list of little odd jobs that need doing. 

Late afternoon finds him outside; he’s cleaned out the gutters and watered Ruth’s plants, and he makes a start on mowing the grass around the cottage. It’s physical work and he likes it; even with the heat bearing down on him, scorching the back of his neck as he runs the mower in neat, methodical strips, the repetitiveness of it settles his mind, and the physical labour eases that itchiness under his skin, the pulsing energy in his gut that keeps telling him to run. 

Ruth brings him out sandwiches and lemonade, but mostly leaves him be, which he appreciates. Eventually, though, when there’s nothing left to distract himself with, he puts away the mower and heads inside. He takes a quick bath to sluice off the sweat and grime from the day and dresses in a pair of sweatpants and a clean shirt. 

When he goes downstairs, Ruth’s sat in the kitchen, a glass of white wine in front of her. The cottage has a small, cozy living room, with an old farmhouse style hearth and squishy, worn couches, but she seems to prefer to spend her evenings in the kitchen. She watches him as he moves to the fridge and looks inside.

“I need to get some shopping in,” she says, a note of apology in her tone.

Stiles shakes his head. “I can do it tomorrow,” he offers. “I can swing by the town and pick up some things.”

“I’d appreciate that, thank you.”

Stiles offers her a smile in response and grabs a few things. He listens to the scratch of Ruth’s pen as she works through a crossword puzzle and the repetitive tap of the knife on the board as he chops up vegetables and herbs, letting the tension slip away from his body as he settles into cooking. Once the pan is on the stove and the smell of tomatoes, rosemary and garlic is heavy and fragrant in the air, he wipes his hands on a dish towel and accepts the glass of wine Ruth offers him.

“You don’t have many clothes,” she remarks.

He shrugs slightly. “Been living out of a backpack for a while. Not much room for clothes. I just have what I need.”

She nods. “Are you likely to get some more while you’re in town?”

He knows what she’s really asking: is he going to stop living out of his backpack and start setting down roots here, at least for a while?

It’s tempting. The thought of having a base, somewhere to eat and sleep, somewhere with _family_ , is nice. He can be nobody here; he could set himself up with a fake identity and blend into the quiet life of the town. If he’s careful, no one from his old life would ever know he was here. 

But he can’t. Because even though the constant urge to run is muted, it’s still there, lurking deep down in his core. He knows he’s running away, that he’s trying futilely to escape everything that happened, but he doesn’t care. He just needs to keep moving.

He’ll stay for a little while, take some time to rest and recover and try and build up his funds again. Most of Steve’s money is gone; he needs to start supplementing it somehow. 

But he knows he’ll move on again before long.

“Probably not,” he says gently.

She looks at him, but doesn’t reply; instead, she simply nods, and there’s weary understanding on her face. 

He wonders why she moved to the cottage permanently, leaving the States far behind her. He wonders how long _she’s_ been running away, and from what.

***

He doesn’t sleep much that night. 

Nightmares wake him up and leave him suffocating for long, agonizing minutes as he stares at his hands and counts his fingers over and over until the panic seeps away. He’s drained and exhausted, frazzled from a panic attack, but he doesn’t sleep; instead, he stares out of the window at the trees until the clock on the wall tells him it’s nearly four-thirty.

He makes sure he doesn’t disturb Ruth as he dresses and heads out with his backpack, now emptied to make room for groceries. He’ll probably have to get a taxi back to the cottage, since the heat wouldn’t be good for any refrigerated items, but he hikes the route to the town, completing it before the sun is too high and blazing hot in the sky. 

The town is quiet and sleepy, just waking up for the day. He watches bakeries and shops open, people starting to step out of their homes to head to work or school. It’s easy to see which of the people around him are residents and which are tourists, which makes it easier to keep his presence mostly unnoticed; in the summer months, the town is flocked with visitors, and Stiles blends in, ignored by pretty much everyone. 

The main store isn’t open yet, so he makes his way down to the beach. There’s a slight breeze spilling off the ocean, cool and refreshing, staining his lips with the taste of salt. He’s tempted to take off his boots and socks so he can feel the sand underneath his feet, maybe even wade into the sea to feel the cold water kiss at his ankles, but he doesn’t. He looks out at the remains of the harbour and the gulls swinging and looping through the air, already searching for scraps and unsuspecting tourists to pester. 

When he makes his way back to the main town, he finds that the local mechanics is open. It’s a small, squat garage attached to a marginally bigger, quaint house, and the metal door has been rattled open, exposing the interior of the shop. It’s cluttered and Stiles can smell the thick scent of grease and oil from the sidewalk. 

It reminds him of Tony’s garage at the tower.

A pang of guilt and wistfulness knots in his chest and he steps forward before he can help it. There’s a Jeep Cherokee taking up most of the space and a middle aged man in greasy overalls bent over it, muttering under his breath. He glances up when he notices Stiles and straightens.

“Puis-je vous aider?” He asks gruffly. 

Stiles blinks. “Uh, non, pardon, je viens…” he trails off.

The man raises an eyebrow at Stiles’s French accent and looks him over, taking in his attire and backpack. “Tourist?” he asks. 

Stiles nods. “American.”

He grunts slightly and turns away, returning his attention to the Jeep. Stiles watches him for a minute, not really sure why he’s still stood here, but he can’t bring himself to walk away just yet. There’s something comforting about the familiarity of a greasy workshop. 

“What’s the problem?” he asks after a moment.

A sharp glance is thrown his way, but the man replies, “No start syndrome. I replaced the battery and IAC, but it has ignition failure. I’ll have to replace the PCM.” 

Stiles takes a step forward, glancing at the guts of the Jeep. “Have you tried replacing the coolant temperature sensor? Cheaper and an easier fix.”

He looks thoughtful for a moment, considering it. “Could work,” he allows. He looks Stiles over again. “You know cars?”

He shrugs, smiling slightly. “Kinda.”

Another grunt and he reaches over to grab a stained rag, wiping the grease off his hands with it. He watches Stiles for a moment, expression unreadable and blue eyes sharp. 

“I know you,” he says eventually. “I watch the news. What are you doing here?”

Stiles swallows. It isn’t the first time he’s been recognized, but it still puts a sour taste in his throat. He doesn’t know how this man will react, whether he blames Stiles for the events in New York, and it unsettles him. He hates feeling vulnerable.

“Keeping my head down,” he replies quietly. 

“And looking for cash, I figure.”

Stiles glances up, hesitating before he nods. “Yeah.”

“You got experience?”

“Depends,” he replies. “Do you consider fixing up cars with Tony Stark as relevant experience?”

He snorts and jerks a thumb over his shoulder towards a door. “Spare overalls in the utility room.” He turns back to the car. “Cash in hand. You won’t be in my books, so no insurance, and there’d better be no trouble coming my way. Understood?”

“Understood. I…thank you.”

“Arthur,” he says.

Stiles nods. “I’m…” he trails off when Arthur gives him another cautionary look. He gets it; just because he knows who Stiles is, doesn’t mean Stiles should throw his real name out there. “Michael.”

Arthur nods and Stiles moves past him to head into the utility room. The overalls are a little loose on him, but they’ll do their job. When he returns to the main workshop, Arthur doesn’t look up from the Jeep, just points with a wrench to an old, beaten up motorcycle tucked against the back wall of the garage.

So Stiles gets to work, crouching to assess the motorcycle and figure out what needs doing to repair it. Even with the door open, the workshop is warm, but there’s a fan plugged in by the biggest tool bench, rattling away as it spews cool, stale air over them. Still, Stiles sweats as he works, overalls a little stuffy, but he doesn’t mind. It’s more physical work and it’s work that he actually _enjoys_ ; he likes the methodical element of it, taking the bike apart inside his mind to analyse each and every component, down to the smallest nut and bolt, so he can find the problem. Then it’s a matter of fixing it, which is just as relaxing, easing into the steady rhythm of find, fix, repeat, occasionally pausing to wipe grease off his hands on a rag.

He keeps his head down as he works, out of view of any customers that approach the shop, and he loses track of the time. There’s an old, clunky radio on the tool bench, switched to a sports commentary channel, and Stiles lets the sound wash over him, a steady white noise as he gets his hands dirty.

Eventually, a woman pokes her head into the shop. She’s pretty, with soft features and short mousy hair peppered with grey, and she glances at Stiles in surprise before looking at Arthur.

“Michael,” Arthur explains, switching back to French. “He’s helping me out today.”

She just nods, offering Stiles a smile. “So, two lunches today?”

The look Arthur gives her is so full of fondness that Stiles has to look away, chest pinching for a moment. It reminds him too much of the softness on Steve’s face whenever he made Stiles smile or laugh. 

“Thanks, love,” Arthur says. 

She disappears for ten minutes, returning with a tray loaded with two plates of sandwiches and fruit and two glasses of iced tea. She sets Stiles’s plate and glass down next to him and he thanks her quietly. She smiles.

“Do you have a bed for the night?” she asks.

Arthur laughs quietly. “Stop trying to adopt strays, Lucie.”

“I’m…I have somewhere to stay,” Stiles says. “Thank you.”

She nods, appeased, and bustles back into the house. Stiles cleans his hands before picking up one of the sandwiches, biting into it. It’s delicious, with cheese and grapes and salad, and he sits with his back propped against the wall as he eats. Once he’s done, he takes a drink from the iced tea – it’s sweet, almost floral, but cold and refreshing – and sits up, catching Arthur’s eye.

“Where should I…?” he gestures to his empty plate.

Arthur gives him an unfathomable look. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll sort them.”

Stiles nods and turns back to the motorcycle. He’s almost finished fixing it up, but he plans on giving it a decent clean and a polish once the repairs are done. The two of them work in silence for a while, the shop filled with the hum of the radio and the scrape and clatter of tools. Stiles loses track of time until Arthur speaks.

“Are you a spy?”

Stiles has a precision screwdriver clenched between his teeth. He spits it out, pulling a face at the taste of metal and oil on his tongue, before he answers. “Why do you ask?”

“They never said on the news,” Arthur says evenly. “But your French is impeccable. And the skills you must have to do what you did had to come from somewhere. So. Are you a spy?”

“I…” Stiles swallows, hesitates, before finishing quietly, “I’m an agent of SHIELD. Or I was, anyway. Now I’m just nobody.”

Arthur grunts slightly in acknowledgement and Stiles glances over at him. He’s pretty skilled at reading people, especially ordinary civilians, but Arthur is nearly impossible to get a read on. Stiles doesn’t know what he thinks about Stiles’s brief stint as a SHIELD agent and he doesn’t offer any insight to his opinion, his attention already back on his work. 

Eventually, the bike is done, polished up and gleaming. Stiles tidies the tools away and Arthur looks over, running a critical eye over the motorcycle. He nods slightly, but Stiles thinks it’s approving, so he relaxes a little.

“You going to stick around?” Arthur asks casually as he packs away his own tools.

Stiles shrugs. “Probably not.”

“Will you be here tomorrow?”

He pauses. “Probably, yeah.”

“Good. Come at six. Your cash is on the bench.”

Stiles opens his mouth to thank him, but Arthur’s already turned his back on him, so he just peels off the overalls, hanging them back up neatly in the utility room. There’s a bundle of cash on the bench, enough to generously compensate Stiles for the day’s work, and he pockets it, slipping out of the shop. 

It’s early evening and still light out, but the cool sea breeze has taken the edge off the harsh sun. He makes his way to the main grocery store and keeps his head down as he shops, grabbing what he needs and paying without lingering for too long. 

He does get a taxi back to the cottage. He doesn’t really like it; he doesn’t like the thought of anyone knowing where he is. But it’s necessary, since he has fresh items in his backpack that would be ruined by a long hike back in the heat. He pays and tips the driver and watches him drive away before turning to head into the cottage.

Ruth is in the kitchen, waiting on the kettle to boil. She glances at him as he steps inside, taking in his sweaty, grease stained appearance. 

“You should wash your hands,” she remarks. “Oil is a pain.”

Stiles nods and sets his backpack on the counter. “I got groceries.”

She smiles. “Merci.”

He moves to the sink, twisting the faucet until clear, warm water spills over his hands. He has to scrub at his hands with soap until his skin is raw and pink, but he manages to get most of the oil out from the creases of his palms and fingers and from under his short nails. He turns off the water and dries his hands.

“I thought perhaps you had left,” Ruth says. “But you left your clothes.”

“I found some work,” he explains. “Cash in hand, fixing up cars.”

She smiles. “That’s good.” She looks at him, a wry look in her dark eyes. “It sounds like you’ll be staying for a while, then.”

He looks away. “Maybe.”

She doesn’t answer and he starts to help her put the groceries away. Once that’s done, he tugs the cash from his pocket and peels half of it away from the bundle, holding it out to her. She frowns, reaching out to gently lower his wrist, turning the money away.

“You’re family,” she reminds him. “And I’m a lonely old spinster without even a cat for company. You’ve done enough around here anyway. You don’t need to pay me.”

He hesitates. It feels wrong, not offering any money in return for staying, but there’s a stubborn look on her face that’s painfully familiar. He’s seen it in his own expression way too many times, after all. So he nods and stashes the money away again. 

He cleans and freshens up before getting started on dinner. It’s been so long since he cooked regularly and he’s missed it. He finds himself feeling relaxed as he works, something that’s been pretty rare lately, and he savors it. 

Ruth doesn’t set the small table in the kitchen; instead, she heads outside, and Stiles follows with the serving bowl full of lazanki. Outside of the kitchen door, at the back of the property, is a small patio. The grey flagstones are cracked and crumbling in places, but they’re bordered by beautiful wildflowers, and there’s a small metal table tucked against the wall with three chairs nestled in around it. 

Stiles serves up the food as Ruth pours them both a glass of white wine. She likes her wine dry and tart, whereas Stiles has always preferred sweeter, softer wines, but he drinks it all the same. The patio offers up a view of the back garden; the end of the property is just a few feet away from the first fringe of thick trees, marked by the crumbled remains of what was once a low stone wall. 

The trees sway gently in the breeze. Dusk is creeping in, fingers of purple and pink and gold stretching across the sky as the sun begins to kiss the treetops, and if Stiles is very, very quiet, he’s sure he can hear the quiet rush of the ocean in the distance. 

Despite growing up in a small town, Stiles has always been a city boy at heart, and, until he’d left it, New York had always felt like home. But he can appreciate the rural serenity of the cottage’s isolation and the natural scenery it provides. It’s beautiful. Peaceful.

He sips his wine and wonders if it’s the kind of place Steve imagines settling down in someday.

***

He stays with Ruth for eleven days.

He spends every day at the workshop, helping Arthur, and the work is good; it’s easy to lose track of everything when he’s focused on physical labour and the challenge of fixing something. Arthur doesn’t talk a whole lot and he doesn’t ask him any questions, which he appreciates. He’s given cash in hand at the end of each day and no one else in the town seems to notice him much. With the amount of tourists swarming the town to visit the museum and see the beach, he’s mostly ignored.

He cooks in the evenings. Ruth shows him how to bake a Normandy apple tart – his mom’s favorite, apparently – and they spend the quiet hours between dusk and late evening together. She doesn’t ask him questions either, or press for him to talk more about Julia or what happened, and he’s grateful for that. 

Instead, she fills the silence with anecdotes about Claudia and the summers she spent at the cottage. It’s nice listening to them; it hurts, in a distant, familiar sort of way, that twist of grief he thinks will always throb in his heart when he talks about his mom. But he likes hearing about her, about what she was like a child and what she got up to growing up. He feels like he knows her better. 

He feels closer to her.

Underneath the routine, however, he can feel that itch under his skin more and more. The urge to run is intense. He likes the cottage and he likes Ruth, but it’s not home. He doesn’t have a home anymore. He knows he never will if he keeps running, but staying settled in one place feels wrong; it makes him feel vulnerable. He needs to keep moving.   
He makes the decision after almost two weeks, on a Wednesday evening when he decides to swing by the local bar after work. 

It’s a small, quiet place, with a threadbare carpet that’s the same color as spilled wine and cabbage rose wallpaper. There’s a few tourists inside, eating at the tables or drinking at the bar, and a few locals hunched over pints of beer. Music plays over speakers, but it’s a quiet hum, not disturbing the murmur of various conversations buzzing around the space.

Stiles makes his way to the long, polished bar tucked against one wall. There’s a couple of free stools and he slides onto one of them, offering the bartender a nod when she catches his eye. She smiles and makes her way over. 

“Une pinte de lager, merci,” he says, sliding a bill over the bar. “Gardez la monnaie.”

She takes it with a cheerful wink, stashing the money away in the till and adding the change to the tip jar. She pours his lager and sets it down in front of him before strolling over to the other end of the bar. 

There’s a TV hanging from one wall, showing a sports game. The commentary is difficult to hear over the music and the noise of a couple of tourists playing on the fruit machines, but Stiles watches it anyway, simply for something to do. 

He loses track of the time; he finishes his pint and asks for another as he watches the TV. Patrons come and go and he’s mostly left to himself, the people around him seeming to understand his blatant preference for his own space, but he can hear locals and tourists alike chatting away. He closes his eyes, wishing he could just shut off that awareness, that _readiness_ , if only for a little while. He just wants some goddamn peace from his own brain for once.

Someone sits down next to him.

He opens his eyes slowly and looks straight ahead as he takes another drink from his pint. He can feel the guy’s gaze burning into him from his right but ignores it. 

“Je suis qui tu es.” 

His voice is low and gruff. Stiles glances over at him, keeping his expression impassive. The man is probably in his mid to late thirties, tall and buff and tanned from working in the sun, his hands rough from physical work. His hair is brown and cropped short, there’s a slim scar across the bridge of his slightly wonky nose, and his blue eyes are piercing as they stare at Stiles’s face.

“Je ne pense pas,” Stiles replies, making sure to keep his voice clunky and stilted, stained by his natural American accent. 

He’s just another tourist. 

The man braces his thick arms on the bar. There’s too much sharpness in those pale eyes for Stiles’s liking; the guy is smart and he recognizes Stiles. His expression isn’t friendly, either. Stiles drains the rest of his lager, setting the empty glass down on the bar carefully.

“I know who you are,” he repeats, still in French, heedless of Stiles’s attempt at feigning uncertainty of the language. “I saw it on the news. Those things that you did.”

“You’ve got the wrong guy, buddy.” 

“You blew up part of Central Park,” he continues. “It was you, wasn’t it? I know your face. I’ve seen it on TV. You killed those people.”

For a second, Stiles can’t breathe. 

_Ninety-eight dead, a hundred and forty-five injured._

The figures flash through his head, branded permanently in his brain, raw and ugly. Ninety-eight people dead because of him. So many more hurt, their lives changed, even ruined, because of him. Panic seethes inside him and he curls his hands into fists until his nails sink into his palms. He’s sure he can feel it, the blood on his hands, hot and wet and dripping down his skin. There’s oceans of it, pouring off of him, all there because of _him_ , because of what he did.

“Like I said,” he manages, voice surprisingly steady. “You’ve got the wrong guy.”

He eases off the stool and walks as calmly as possible out of the bar, hiding his shaking hands in his pockets. He keeps walking until he reaches the outskirts of town and then he stops, leaning against the rough brick of a wall. He’s tucked into a short, narrow alleyway cutting off from the central road; this late, the sky is a dark, hazy blue above him and he’s alone. He has the space he needs to brace his hands on his knees and fight back the urge to throw up.

“Ninety-eight,” he mutters, squeezing his eyes shut. “Ninety-eight, ninety-eight…”

The panic chokes him, thick and vicious, and he gasps in a desperate lungful of air. He forces his mind away from the image of blood and fire, shoves the figures to the back of his mind, and counts his fingers instead, over and over until the panic finally starts to peel away, bit by agonizing bit. 

Eventually, he’s able to straighten up, breath coming a little bit easier. The brick scratches against his sweat slick skin, uncomfortable against his spine, and he presses back into it, lets the ache snap him the rest of the way free from the panic attack. 

There’s a scrape of footsteps to his right.

Stiles pushes away from the wall, glancing towards the mouth of the narrow lane. It’s the guy from the bar, flanked by two other men. One of them has a cigarette wedged between his lips, smoke curling up into the air, and the other’s wearing a cap, flipped backwards so the visor’s at the back of his head. 

“Fellas,” Stiles says quietly, stepping into the middle of the tight space. “I told you. You’ve got the wrong guy.”

The man with the wonky nose points a thick finger at him. “I know you. You’re Hydra.”

Stiles swallows, gritting his teeth for a second. “I’m not _Hydra_.” 

The fact that he’s associated, even slightly, with Hydra because of Julia’s brief alliance with Ward makes him feel like shit. Julia had hated Hydra too, part of her goal – part of _their_ goal – had been to destroy Hydra for good, but he knows how easy it is for wires to be crossed, how easy it is for people to jump to conclusions. They think he’s Hydra. And they’re clearly not fans. 

More footsteps echo in the alleyway, this time from behind him. Stiles tips his head slightly to the side, glancing over his shoulder at the man approaching him with a baseball bat, before slowly meeting Wonky Nose’s gaze again.

“I don’t want any trouble,” he says quietly. “I’m leaving town.”

The man mutters something vulgar in French and spits, the glob of saliva hitting the paving stone close to Stiles’s foot. He looks down at it, refusing to tense when he hears the guy with the baseball bat creep even closer, clearly waiting for his buddy’s signal.

“Come on, man,” Stiles tries. “I’m not Hydra. I’m not…I’m not Viper. I’m _nobody_. And I’m leaving. I won’t come back.”

“Too late,” Cigarette says; his voice is like gravel, deep and scratchy. “Only one thing to do to scum like you.”

Stiles squares his shoulders, spreading his hands slightly. “Don’t do this.”

The man behind takes another step closer. Stiles doesn’t look behind him again, doesn’t tear his gaze away from the three men in front of him, but he’s aware of how close Baseball Bat is; close enough to swing now. Danger snaps down Stiles’s spine, crackling under his skin, and he doesn’t want to do this, doesn’t want to fight them, because they’re not the bad guys, not really, but it’s clear they’re not willing to back away. He’s boxed in between them, unable to get past to give them the slip.

“Look,” he says evenly. “If you approach a guy, four on one, with a baseball bat, and he doesn’t even flinch? That should tell you that he knows something you don’t. And that’s usually when you should back off.”

Wonky Nose’s upper lip curls, showing straight, white teeth. He gestures slightly, spitting out another insult in French, and Stiles hears the inhale of breath, the whisper of sneakers on stone as the man behind him prepares to swing. He turns, twisting his body to the side, and the bat whistles past him; caught off guard, the guy overbalances as he follows the arc of the weapon. It’s easy after that to step in close, grab the bat, and hold it pinned down as he snaps his knee up into the man’s gut. 

He doubles over, wheezing, and Stiles brings his elbow down in a sharp blow to his back, forcing him to the ground. He doesn’t want to have to knock him out unless he has to; it isn’t like the assailants he’d faced as a SHIELD agent, or even the guys on the train who’d been armed with knives, out to kill him, and had been Viper bigots. 

He kicks the baseball bat and it rattles away. A body barrels into him from the right, shoving him into the wall, and Stiles brings his elbows up, blocking Cigarette from getting him in a clinch. He aims a punch instead and Stiles reacts on instinct, ducking to the side; his fist smashes into the wall rather than Stiles’s face and there’s a horrible _crack_ , followed by a pained shout.

“Oh, fuck,” Stiles mutters. “I didn’t mean – shit. Sorry.”

Cigarette stumbles back, cradling his hand; his knuckles are bleeding and, yeah, _ow_ , that’s definitely a couple of broken bones. Stiles hadn’t meant for that to happen, but self-preservation had kicked in. These guys aren’t really trained. They’ve clearly been in a few fights or brawls, but they have no real skills in fighting, and it shows. Stiles glances between Cigarette and Baseball Bat, who’s still on the ground, wheezing, arms folded around his aching stomach. Then he looks up at Wonky Nose. 

The guy in the cap’s disappeared. Wonky Nose’s gaze flickers to his buddies, uncertainty creeping over his face.

“I told you,” Stiles says. “I don’t want any trouble.”

He steps back, pointing his finger again. “Leave town. Don’t come back.”

“That’s my plan.” Stiles steps forward carefully and Wonky Nose backs off to the side, letting him pass. “I, uh. I think your buddy needs a hospital.”

Wonky Nose stares at him, clearly unwilling to turn his back on Stiles, but the second Stiles starts to walk away, he hears him move to help his friend up. 

He blows out a breath, rubbing a hand over his face. He’d been thinking about leaving, sure it was almost time to move on again, but this leaves him without any real choice in the matter. He’s not looking for attention or trouble. It’s safer to slip away.

He feels bad that he can’t thank Arthur and his wife, but staying until morning isn’t a good idea. Instead, he takes the hike back to the cottage at a rapid pace, not wanting to linger near the town for too long. It’s dark and quiet, but the front door is left unlocked for him, and he quietly steps inside. Ruth’s already gone to bed, which makes this easier.

He makes his way up to the spare room and stashes his things away in his backpack. He makes the bed, leaves the spare towels folded neatly on the bench, and then pauses, looking out of the window. The trees sway gently in the breeze. The same trees his mom used to look at when she was a child.

He’s going to miss the view.

He forces himself to pull away from the window. He’s built up a decent enough amount of money again, enough to tide him over until he can hopefully find more cash in hand, discreet work. He peels half of the bills away from the rest and goes downstairs.

Next to the phone in the kitchen, there’s a pad of paper full of telephone numbers, notes and reminders. Stiles tears a clean page out of it, picks up the pencil on the table, and scribbles two words.

_Thank you_.

He props up the cash and the note on the counter, tucking the rest of the money away. He makes sure to lock the front door behind him, posting the key back through the letter box, and takes one last look at the cottage.

And then he walks away.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for this chapter: mind control, attempted mind control, graphic violence, broken bones, and attempted sexual assault. For more info on the attempted sexual assault, please read the end notes.

He visits Mont Saint-Michel Abbey and the Palace of Versailles. He sees the Notre-Dame, the Eiffel Tower, the Arc de Triomphe.

He visits Schonbrunn Palace in Vienna and explores the Royal Gardens at Prague Castle. He stands at the base of the Brandenburg Gate and feels tiny; he climbs the 463 steps to the top of the Duomo of the Cathedral of Saint Mary of the Flower and he feels infinite, staring out at a view that’s almost too beautiful to be real. He visits the Leaning Tower of Pisa and holds the camera for a tourist group wanting a picture with it. He explores the Colosseum and Saint Peter’s Basilica.

He visits the Pantheon and he can’t help but think about Steve, about how much he would love it, how interested he’d be in learning that it’s the burial site of Raphael. 

He goes to Acropolis and gazes at the Parthenon. Built in honor of Athena, the Goddess of wisdom and war, and he thinks about Allison.

He explores the museum at Saint Basil’s Cathedral and watches the fountains at Peterhof Palace. He visits the Buda Castle and drinks in the different architectural styles of the Mosque-Cathedral of Cordoba. He tours the two storey armoury at the Royal Palace of Madrid, gazing at the medieval armour and weapons on display, and he takes an elevator to the top of the tower in the Sagrada Familia, spending almost half an hour gazing out at the view of Barcelona. 

The journey by train from Barcelona to Paris takes nearly twelve hours. He sleeps in a hostel and takes the Eurostar the next day, arriving in London by noon.

He’s never visited England before. London is comforting, in a way; it reminds him of New York, large and full of concrete and glass, tall buildings spearing into the sky and swarms of people filling the city, tourists and residents alike. He feels anonymous. It’s a relief. 

He grabs lunch at a small café and explores the city, buying a card for the Tube and bus systems. He visits Buckingham Palace and the Houses of Parliament. He’s tempted to go on the London Eye, but the thought of being trapped in such a small space for that long is too uncomfortable. Still, he gets to see it from a distance. 

He boards a river cruise and walks through Hyde park. He’s not really sure where he’s going until he ends up on a nondescript street full of posh, modern buildings. He stops on the sidewalk across the road from a law firm and gets impatiently shouldered out of the way by a couple of pedestrians. 

The building is identical to the ones on either side of it; smooth, pale stone, unassuming but expensive looking. The door is dark blue with a bronze knocker and there’s a gleaming gold plaque on the wall proclaiming, ‘Acton and Smythe’. Stiles gazes at it, hands tucked in his pockets, and he doesn’t know what he’s doing, why he’s waiting here, but he can’t bring himself to walk away. 

At dead on six, the door opens and Jackson exits the building, making his way down the three stone steps. 

He’s dressed in a neat, stylish navy suit with a crisp white shirt and steel grey tie, a leather satchel slung over his shoulder, and he’s in the middle of talking to a woman in a sleek black skirt suit when he glances across the street and goes still.

The urge to run is overwhelming. His legs _ache_ with it, a slight tremor squirming down his spine as he itches to get away, to disappear now that Jackson has recognized him, but the second he takes a small, hesitant step back, Jackson’s eyes narrow slightly and he shakes his head once, slowly. Stiles swallows but stays put. 

He says something to the woman, resting a hand briefly on her elbow before crossing the road, hand tucked casually in the pocket of his pants as he jaywalks, effortlessly avoiding the traffic. He stops in front of Stiles.

“Don’t run,” he warns.

“I shouldn’t be here,” Stiles mutters.

“If you didn’t want me to see you, I wouldn’t have. I know you could’ve been watching me all day and I wouldn’t have a clue. But you let me see you. So _don’t run_.” Jackson grips his elbow carefully, pushing him back a step, out of the way of more pedestrians.

Stiles exhales slowly, but nods. He gazes at Jackson, taking in the sight of him, feeling oddly shaky and close to tears at being so close to someone who knows him, _really_ knows him, someone he considers a friend. Jackson is a tie to his old life, the one he left behind, and Stiles _shouldn’t be here_ , shouldn’t be torturing himself by doing this, but he can’t help himself.

Jackson looks good; tanned, with a fresh, trendy haircut. The suit is tailored perfectly to him and he’s wearing smart shoes, polished until the expensive leather gleams.

“What happened to the Jackson I know?” Stiles asks, trying for a smile. “All leather jackets and sunglasses, huh?”

“Well, it seems you’re not into the bad boys, anymore,” he replies easily. “Figured I can pass for a nice one these days.”

“It suits you.”

Jackson grins, flashing perfect white teeth. “What doesn’t?”

Stiles snorts, refusing to answer that, and Jackson smiles wider. He slips a pair of designer sunglasses out of his pocket, sliding them onto his face with a smirk, and _there’s_ the Jackson Stiles knows and reluctantly likes.

Jackson gestures for him to follow, but as soon as he turns to the left, Stiles shakes his head, not moving. He gives Stiles a confused look, one eyebrow lifting ever so slightly. It’s so familiar that it makes Stiles’s chest ache.

“Cameras,” he says simply.

Confusion shifts to faint exasperation. “You think they’re looking for you.”

“Aren’t they?”

Jackson sighs, resting a hand on Stiles’s back. “Fine. You know where I live?”

Stiles nods. 

“Know how to get there without being seen? This city’s full of CCTV.”

Stiles nods again and Jackson rolls his eyes.

“Of course you do,” he mutters. “Fine. Lead the way.”

Stiles does. He tucks his cap lower on his face; with his longer hair, scruff and sunglasses, he looks different enough to not be recognized by any of the cameras they _can’t_ avoid. Jackson follows silently, not commenting on the various manoeuvres Stiles pulls off, just observing them with quiet judgement. It isn’t until they reach his building that he speaks.

“When did you get so paranoid, Stilinski?”

Stiles shrugs. “Probably somewhere between getting kidnapped and threatened with torture and having someone control my mind. Probably.”

“Yeah, that’s a downer,” Jackson replies evenly. “Fucking drama queen.”

He elbows him in the ribs in response and makes his way up the stairs. There’s an elevator and Jackson gripes about not using it – in his suit, he’s already sweating a little due to the June heat – but follows him. When they reach Jackson’s apartment, Stiles slips Jackson’s keys out of his pocket and opens the door, stepping inside.

Jackson looks between the door and the keys in Stiles’s hand. “When the fuck did you…?”

“’Bout twenty minutes ago. You shouldn’t keep them in your jacket pocket. Too easy to swipe.”

“Thanks,” he drawls. “I’ll remember that. Asshole.”

Stiles nudges the door shut with his foot, ignoring Jackson’s incredulous glance at the poor treatment of his apartment, and drops the keys on the coffee table. 

Jackson’s place is nice; nothing extravagant, but modern and spacious, with large windows offering a stunning view of the city. Stiles knows an apartment like this in London must cost an absolute bomb, but it’s not like Jackson’s ever been wanting for money.

“So,” Jackson says. “You look like shit, Stiles.”

“Thanks. You look great, Jackson. I like the what you’ve done with the horns. Trimming them down, smart move.”

He rolls his eyes. “You’re still not funny.” He removes his suit jacket, tossing it carelessly over the back of the couch, and loosens his tie. “How long have you been in London?”

“A few hours.”

“Where were you before that?”

“Everywhere.”

“Informative,” he says dryly. “Enjoying sightseeing?”

Stiles shrugs. “Got a nice bucket list I’m ticking things off.”

Jackson pops a couple of buttons open on his shirt and heads over to an alcohol cabinet, grabbing a decanter of whiskey. He pours ice into two squat glasses and splashes whiskey over the top before offering one to Stiles.

“Scott seems to think you’re in Hong Kong.”

Stiles takes the drink, fingers curling around cold glass. “So they are looking for me.”

“Kind of,” Jackson replies. He sits down on the long leather couch. “Allison said that Barnes has convinced Rogers, Stark and your dad to hold off for a while. That you need space to process what happened. Since he’s probably the best expert on this shit, they agreed. But Stark’s still doing your boyfriend -.”

“He’s not my boyfriend anymore.”

Jackson rolls his eyes. “He’s still doing Rogers and Allison a favor by keeping tabs on you, just in case.” He takes a sip of his whiskey, throat working as he swallows it. “I gotta hand it to you, Stiles. When they told me, I gave it two weeks before they tracked you down. I mean, whatever training SHIELD gave you shouldn’t hold up against Stark’s software, right? I figured they’d find you easily. Instead you’ve got them keeping an eye on false trails. Were you ever in Hong Kong?”

He shakes his head. “I’ve been researching this stuff since high school. How to keep off the grid, that kinda thing. Just for fun; I never thought I’d have to use it, it was just interesting. And then SHIELD taught me more. I know enough about Tony and the others to keep off their radar.” He rubs a hand over his hair. “It hasn’t been easy, though.”

“Then why do it?”

Stiles looks up. “They told you what happened.”

“Yeah. Some chick controlled your mind and made you do shitty things.” Jackson shrugs slightly. “I know if I tell you that it’s not your fault, you won’t listen, so I’m not gonna waste my breath. But why come here? How do you know I won’t just ring Allison and tell them where you are?”

Stiles slips Jackson’s phone out of the pocket of his shorts, lifting it up. Jackson takes a deep breath, jaw working for a moment.

“Son of a bitch,” he mutters, snatching the phone back. He glances at it before placing it on the glass coffee table. “Fine. But I could call them now, or after you leave.”

“You won’t.”

Jackson’s eyes narrow. “How do you know?”

He meets his gaze. “Why did you move to London?”

For a second, Jackson stays silent, expression hard as steel, but then his mouth twitches up slightly in a small, humourless smirk. “Alright,” he agrees. “So, why’d you let me see you? What do you want?”

Stiles looks down at his drink. He swirls the glass slightly, watching amber liquid slosh up the sides. The ice rattles quietly and Jackson sighs.

“Did you come here for a fuck?”

He looks up, amused. “Sure, Jackson. I travelled thousands of miles just to fuck you. You’re just that good.”

He shrugs. “Did you?”

Stiles looks him over, considering. “I’d be thinking of Steve the whole time,” he tells him honestly.

“Like I could give a fuck,” Jackson returns casually. “Sex is sex.”

“I’ve missed your charm, Jackson, truly. I didn’t come here for a fuck.”

“So, what? A hot shower? A place to crash? Money?”

Stiles frowns. “I’m not gonna take your _money_ , Jackson. Shit.” 

“Why not?” Jackson asks, raising an eyebrow. “I heard you took a nice chunk of Stars and Stripes’s money before you ditched him.” 

Stiles looks away again, gazing out of the window, and he doesn’t answer. The city sprawls out before them, the Thames visible in the distance, and the sky is dazzlingly bright and clear, even as evening starts to creep in. 

“You don’t know,” Jackson says after a moment. “Why you came to me. You just did.”

Stiles shrugs slightly. “Been a while since I had some human contact. Guess I was desperate.”

Jackson sighs and sets his glass on the table, leaning forward. His expression is serious when he catches and holds Stiles’s gaze. 

“Okay, look,” he starts. “I know I said I wasn’t gonna waste my breath, but screw it. Go home, Stiles.”

“I can’t.”

“You can. Just do it. Go back. Accept the therapy they offer, let your boyfriend cuddle the trauma away, whatever. Stop running, okay?”

Stiles shakes his head. “Jackson. I can’t.”

“So what’s the plan?” Jackson demands. “Keep running? Where? For how long?”

“I don’t know. Until something stops me.” 

“Well, I’m glad to hear you’ve got this so perfectly planned out,” he says dryly. 

“It’s all I’ve got right now,” Stiles replies.

“Uh huh. Sure.” Jackson drains the rest of his drink. “So, where are you going next?”

“Southampton. Maybe.”

He snorts. “Right,” he says, disbelief clear in his tone. “You’re leaving the country, aren’t you?”

Stiles doesn’t answer, just finishes his own whiskey and gets to his feet. “Are you going to tell them I was here?”

“Fuck you,” Jackson replies without heat. “You know I won’t, you asshole.”

Stiles nods and heads for the door, but he stops when Jackson says his name again, nothing but weariness in his voice. When Stiles turns, Jackson gets to his feet and disappears into another room. He returns with a thick roll of cash in his hands.

“British pounds,” he says. “But I’m guessing you’ll be able to get them converted discreetly, huh?”

“I’m not taking your money, Jackson.”

Jackson reaches out, grabbing Stiles’s hand. He presses the money into his grip. “Just take it, you stubborn idiot. You can pay me back someday.”

Stiles swallows and unzips his backpack, shoving the money inside. “Goodbye, Jackson.”

“I’ll see you soon,” he replies firmly.

Stiles looks away and Jackson doesn’t say anything else, but Stiles can feel his gaze on his back as he leaves.

***

He goes to Southampton.

Jackson won’t believe he’ll be staying in England now, let alone going where he actually said he was, and on the off chance he _does_ decide to contact Scott or Allison, he’ll lead them to think the same. 

He takes the fast ferry to the Isle of Wight and spends a day exploring the beaches there. He likes the salty sea air, enjoys the peaceful quietness of Fort Victoria, and hikes in the thick patch of forest skirting the beach. He walks the coastal footpath, visits a falconry, explores the beauty of the Shanklin Chine. He sees the Needles, spends an hour in a small aquarium, and pays to join a hover taxi experience on the ocean, and it’s _fun_ , it’s enjoyable, and yet he still feels empty.

Jackson’s words keep looping in his head, over and over. 

He doesn’t know what he’s doing or what his plan is. He only knows that running is all he has now. He can’t go back and he can’t settle anywhere; the urge to keep moving, to never stop, is a constant presence, sinking sharp teeth into him. 

But how long can it last? He’s empty. He has no purpose. He travels, flitting from city to city, from one country to another, burning through money and false ID’s and passports, entrenched in a pattern of moving and avoiding notice. But there’s no _point_ in him anymore.

He’s just going to keep running until it kills him.

***

He spends a couple of days in the Peak District.

It’s breathtakingly beautiful and he visits both Peaks, taking in the scenery of the moorland, climbing the plateaus and exploring the valleys and limestone gorges. Hope Valley is incredible, providing a view of green, rounded peaks and dips; the sky is an almost searing blue, fluffy clouds hanging like cotton candy above the top of the valley, and the heat doesn’t seem as thick or oppressive up high. 

He picks out a careful path on The Giant’s Causeway and stands at the end of a small dock in Windemere, gazing out at the water, sunset spilling a patchwork of red and gold across the smooth surface. He visits the cliffs at Dover, and Stonehenge; he gazes at the rocks, ancient and seeped in history, and feels incredibly small and insignificant. It’s the most comforted he’s felt in weeks.

He climbs mountains in Snowdonia and sits at the edge of the Loch Ness as summer rain pelts down onto the surface of the lake, spitting up little droplets into the air as ripples shimmer across the surface, the sky smudged into a bleak grey. He imagines Scott sat next to him, hair dripping with rain, bouncing theories off Stiles about the monster and whether or not it’s real. 

He almost smiles.

He explores the Highlands and the Brecon Beacons, he visits the Minack Theatre in Cornwall and Durdle Door in Dorset, he hikes across Dartmoor and sits in lavender fields in Banstead; he stares up at the Angel of the North and, somehow, it makes him think about Tony.

He ends up in Bristol, planning to see the cathedral, stay at a bed and breakfast for the night, and move on the next morning. He grabs food from a little independent bistro and walks by the river for a while; the weather is cool, a slightly damp breeze chasing away any summer warmth, and the dark, heavy clouds staining the sky threaten a storm. When sunset starts closing in, shrouding the city in muted navy, he ducks into a bar. 

It’s close to the centre of town, a cheap chain pub with stained, chintzy carpet and the smell of grease and beer in the air. It’s Saturday, so it’s packed with students pre-drinking before a night out, and Stiles has to squeeze through the crowds to reach the bar. The scent of hairspray, Lynx and cheap booze is a thick cloud filling the room, so strong Stiles can almost taste it in his throat, and he finds a place towards the end of the bar, near the door to the back seating area; it’s propped open and cigarette smoke and something that smells a little more suspicious wafts in. 

Stiles rests his forearms on the sticky bar top and closes his eyes, letting it all wash over him until that sense of fading out, of being nothing, buzzes comfortingly over his skin. He breathes in, slow and deep, and savors the brief sense of calm that slips around him like warm cotton. 

A hand taps the bar near his arm impatiently and his eyes snap open. One of the bartenders, a girl with bright blue and green hair and a septum piercing, raises her eyebrows at him expectantly.

“Can I get you anything, or…?”

Stiles clears his throat, glancing around him. Pitchers are being handed out, filled with vibrant pink and orange and blue concoctions, and he looks over the row of pumps in front of him to see what beer they offer.

“Pint of John Smith’s,” he finally says. “Thanks.”

She turns away to grab a glass and pours the beer with practised precision; the foam teases at the rim of the glass without spilling over as she sets it down on the bar. Stiles hands her a five pound note and she slaps his change down on the bar, already walking away to see to another patron. The coins rattle slightly as they settle on the wood and Stiles takes them, tucking them into his pocket.

He takes a sip of his drink. It’s malty, a little sweet and fruity with a strong bitter aftertaste. It reminds him of the kind of beer Steve likes to drink, the way that slight bitterness tasted on Stiles’s own tongue as he chased the flavor from Steve’s mouth, and he sighs, hunching slightly over the bar. 

He finishes the first pint and orders another. He doesn’t want to go to the bed and breakfast just yet, doesn’t want to lie down on an unfamiliar bed and stare at the ceiling until the nightmares swallow him. He listens to the music and chatter and laughter around him, watches a drinking game going on at one of the tables, until two girls and a guy appear at his left. 

“Hi,” one of the girls greets, leaning against the bar next to him.

She’s tall, with a messy platinum blonde bob, a comic book patterned dress and a daisy chain tattooed around her wrist. Her friend is shorter, but towers almost as tall in her platforms, and has her ginger hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail, showing off multiple dainty piercings in her ears. She offers him a bright smile.

“You looked lonely over here by yourself,” the blonde continues. She looks him over. “Tourist, right? American?”

“Ya got me,” Stiles replies, adopting a soft, honeyed Southern accent, slow and caramel-sweet. “Am I that obvious?”

She grins. “Could be worse. At least you’re not wearing socks and sandals. You travelling alone?”

He nods. “Backpacking.”

“Sounds lonely.”

Stiles shrugs. “Maybe.”

“I’m Lexa,” she says. “This is Abby. And _this_ ,” she tugs the guy forward. “Is Ollie.”

Ollie gives Stiles a deliberate, slow once over and smiles, showing straight white teeth. “Alright?” he says in greeting.

“Austin Parker,” Stiles replies. “Nice to meet you.”

“We’re just in a middle of a game,” Lexa says, gesturing over her shoulder at their table. “Never Have I Ever. You played it?”

Stiles nods. “A few times, yeah.” 

“We’re heading to a gig after,” she adds. “A local band, they’re great. They have this indie punk kind of vibe, you know? It’s at a place near here.”

Ollie reaches out, hand reaching past Stiles. Instinctively, he tenses, alarm coiling in his gut at the sudden proximity, but the other man just picks up Stiles’s pint of beer, pulling it towards himself. Stiles stares at them, everything seeming suddenly surreal; these people have no idea who he is, what he’s done or what he’s capable of. If they did, they wouldn’t get so close.

He watches as Ollie lifts the glass to his mouth, gaze holding Stiles’s as he takes a long, slow swallow of the beer. He lowers the glass again, licks his lips, and offers a slightly crooked, confident smile.

“Wanna come with us?” he asks. He has a West Country twang to his voice.

Stiles looks him over. He’s good looking, dressed in tight jeans and a casual band shirt that shows off a toned stomach. Hair so dark it’s almost black curls over his forehead and his eyes are a deep hazel; he’s wearing glasses, black, trendy frames, and he’s grown in some stubble. He’s shorter than Stiles, but lean, a muted strength in his body.

He looks nothing like Steve.

Stiles considers. Ollie is attractive and pretty blatant in his flirting, and it’s clear he’s looking for a hook up, nothing more. It’d be easy to just nod and go with them, attend some cheap gig packed with sweaty, stoned students and drink even cheaper booze, dance to some indie band and let Ollie fuck him on an uncomfortable single bed somewhere in the city. 

He could just forget about everything, including himself, for a little while, drown it all out with the sensation of skin against skin and teeth scraping over lips. 

Stiles opens his mouth to reply, not even sure what his answer will be, but something catches his attention.

About five spaces down from Stiles, there’s a girl leaning against the bar, waiting for her turn to order. She’s pretty – wild curls dyed pastel pink, big blue eyes and a floral half sleeve on her left arm – but what grabs Stiles’s focus is the guy next to her. He’s looking at her, dark eyes intent on her face, and there’s something in his expression that niggles at Stiles. It’s almost predatory, but more than that, it’s _familiar_ ; he can’t place why, but it sticks uncomfortably behind Stiles’s ribs, unease slithering down his spine.

“Uh, sorry,” Stiles says. “Not tonight.”

“Are you sure?” Ollie asks. “The gig is free.”

Stiles shakes his head. He loses the thread of conversation after that, not really sure who says what, but after a minute, Ollie and the two girls walk away, taking the rejection well and leaving him in peace. He barely registers any of it, though; his focus is on the pink haired girl and the man stood next to her.

Stiles shifts a little closer, tipping his head slightly, keeping his posture casual as he glances over. He can’t catch the wisp of their voices above the noise of the pub, but he can read their lips. 

“– a drink?” the guy’s saying.

“Oh, thanks, but I just bought one.” 

“Your next one, then?” he persists. 

She pauses, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, subconsciously leaning away from him as the bartender takes her money and sets a gaudy pink cocktail down in front of her. She’s tensed slightly, discomfort evident in her body and in her expression. 

“Thanks, but, really. I’m okay.” 

She starts to turn, ready to walk away, and the guy reaches out. Stiles can’t see his mouth, so he doesn’t know what he says, but his hand snatches towards her wrist. She jerks back, cocktail spilling slightly onto her heeled boots, and his fingers brush her top instead, leaving a slight smear of sweat on the white satin.

“Leave me alone,” she says, loud enough that Stiles can actually hear it.

She walks away, joining her friends at a table, and turns her back on the bar, but her posture is still too straight, too tense, showing her anger and lingering discomfort. Stiles glances at the guy; he’s watching her, frustration on his face, but he doesn’t make a move to follow.

Still. There’s something there, something in the man’s eyes, that buries it’s way under Stiles’s skin, niggling at him. Something familiar in how _not right_ it is. 

So he stays. He doesn’t order another drink, just nurses the rest of his beer and leans casually against the bar as he keeps an eye on the man still stood a few spaces down. He disappears briefly, but Stiles knows he’s headed to the bathroom, and isn’t obvious enough to immediately follow. He returns again a few minutes later, oblivious to Stiles’s attention.

He flirts with the bartender, who completely ignores his attempts as she serves him a drink. He flirts with a couple of other girls; one walks away without a word, but the other is receptive, leaning in to his advances. Stiles notices the way his gaze keeps flicking towards the pink haired girl, though, and isn’t surprised when the guy turns down an offer to dance, eventually dismissing the woman talking to him. 

At close to eleven, the group around the girl’s table get to their feet. There are hugs and kisses and most of them leave, stumbling out to head either to a club or home. 

Except for the pink haired girl. 

She lingers, finishing her drink, and checks her phone before heading to the bathroom. Stiles looks at the man, watches his gaze follow her, that predatory glint in his eyes more obvious now, and his suspicion rockets into disgust. He drains the last swallow of his beer and sets the glass down, grabbing his backpack.

When the girl appears again, briefly, just a glimpse of her through the crowd as she slides her jacket on and steps outside, the man peels away from the bar, pushing past people to go after her.

Stiles follows.

It’s drizzling outside, slow, fat droplets of rain spitting down on him, leaving little marks on the sidewalk. The lights of the buildings spill pools of yellow across the street and glitter on the surface of the river, a haze of orange and red and blue rippling across the water.

There are a few other pedestrians, people making their way either to or from the pub, and there’s steady city traffic crawling by, headlights slicing through the rain, lighting the night up with a bleak, artificial glow. The quiet _whoosh_ of tyres splashing through puddles and the click of heels on the sidewalk is loud over the soft patter of rain. The man is to Stiles’s right, hands tucked casually in his pockets as he walks confidently, like he’s just another guy heading home from the pub. 

The girl is a few feet in front of him, oblivious, her attention on her phone as she walks.

Stiles tucks his cap back on and pulls the hood of his jacket up over it, both to protect himself from the rain and to avoid the notice of cameras as he silently follows. 

He matches his pace to the man’s so there’s no telling echo of footsteps and he stays a discreet distance away, but the guy doesn’t turn round once, doesn’t glance into any windows to check for reflections or pause to look over his shoulder. He doesn’t adjust his footsteps to listen for anyone else’s.

He’s too busy stalking the girl to realize he’s being followed, too.

They reach a quieter part of the city, away from the cluster of clubs and restaurants. It’s darker, a little more isolated, but there’s still a reassuring stream of traffic going by and pedestrians walking past them. Until the woman turns right, into a narrow lane cutting between two large buildings; a shortcut through the block of stores to a residential area ten minutes away. 

The man turns as well. 

Stiles stops matching his pace and doesn’t bother being discreet as he speeds up to the close the distance between them, following the two people into the lane. It’s empty, apart from some trash and an abandoned, rusty supermarket cart, and dark; there’s a streetlamp right at the other end, pitching the small space into low, hazy light, and despite not being long or uncomfortably far from civilization, it’s still unsettlingly isolated.

“Hey!” It’s the woman’s voice, bouncing off the tall brick walls.

“Ssh, relax,” the man says, tone dipped into something low and soothing. It’s like sandpaper scraping over Stiles’s nerves. “Just let me touch you.”

Stiles sees them ahead. The asshole has cornered her against the wall, hands reaching for her, and she presses back into the brick, cringing away from him. Even in the dark, her terror is evident on her face, and she scrabbles inside her purse for something – her phone, maybe, or keys to use as a weapon.

The man’s fingers curl around her bare wrist a second later.

She goes still.

“See?” he coaxes. “You want me. You want this.”

Stiles is almost on them, but his step falters when the woman sways forwards. Her posture loosens, a dazed look glossing over her face as she looks up at the man, gaze going hooded. She licks her lips, swallows slightly.

“Yes,” she breathes.

Stiles goes cold.

He looks at the hand on the woman’s wrist, remembers how the man had reached for her in the pub and how frustrated he’d been when he didn’t touch her properly. His stomach knots up, horror and disgust twisting inside him, and the echo of fear he’d been feeling explodes into pure terror. 

Despite how chilled he feels, sweat clings to his skin, and his breath seizes in his lungs. For a second, he’s sure he can feel it, can feel _her_ , slithering through his brain, and anger, colder and sharper than ice, splinters through him. 

His hand slams down on the man’s shoulder, yanking him back, hard enough that they both stumble slightly. Stiles catches his balance easily, glancing quickly at the woman. She staggers back a step, body colliding with the wall again, and her eyes are wide with confused fear as she stares at them. A single tear carves a path down her cheek.

“Listen, mate,” the man says, lifting his hands slightly. “You’ve got the wrong end of the stick, here.”

“I really don’t think I have,” Stiles replies coolly. “Mind control, right? You sick fuck.”

The woman makes a soft, wounded sound. “I didn’t – I _don’t_ -.”

He looks at her, trying to offer some kind of reassurance despite his own horror at the situation. He knows now why the look on the man’s face is so familiar; it’s control, cold and certain, an almost desperate, coveting need to take and _own_. He’d seen it in Julia’s eyes. The reminder is vicious and sickening.

The guy takes advantage of Stiles’s split second of distraction, hand closing around Stiles’s wrist.

“There’s no reason to make this a big deal,” he says. “Don’t worry about it. Just walk away. Go home.”

Stiles can’t breathe.

He looks down, stares at where bare flesh meets bare flesh; the man’s hand is clammy and rough, fingers firm around Stiles’s wrist, squeezing a little against the bone. He doesn’t know if he’s supposed to feel anything, doesn’t know how this asshole’s power works, but even as he waits for the familiar feeling of compulsion, the oppressive, crushing weight of _someone else_ scooping him out and altering his will, he realizes it isn’t happening.

He just feels scared. _Terrified_. It howls inside of him, desperate fear at being controlled again, a wild, horrified plea against it. He can’t go through it again. He _can’t_.

It’ll destroy him.

But several tense seconds pass and Stiles doesn’t move. 

Slowly, he lifts his gaze to the man’s face. He stares back, wide eyed and startled, confusion twisting his expression into a frown.

“What…?” he starts, a trickle of fear leaking into his voice.

It isn’t working. Not one single part of Stiles wants to do what the asshole says. Whatever form of compulsion he has, it’s ineffective on Stiles. Instead, the terror fades, replaced with seething, scorching anger.

“Sorry,” he says roughly. “Been there, done that, _really_ not a fan.”

He lets go of Stiles’s wrist like he’s been burned, stance shifting into something more defensive, other hand curling into a fist. Stiles blocks the first punch and slams a palm strike to his throat; he stumbles back, hands rising to scrabble at his neck as he seizes, struggling for air. His mouth opens, closes, but he can’t make a single sound. His larynx is injured; he can’t talk. 

Stiles doesn’t know if that’s enough to block his power. His touch is obviously a key part of it, but he doesn’t know if he needs to talk, too, or whether skin contact is enough. So when the guy reaches out, Stiles catches his hand, grips his fingers tight, and _wrenches_. The snap is audible, cracking through the alley, and the guy twitches, mouth open in a silent shout. Stiles drops his hand and breaks the fingers on the other one before stepping back, taking a deep breath.

“Oh god,” the girl’s voice is thin and thready behind Stiles.

He turns. “You okay?”

She nods slightly, staring at the guy crying silently on the ground, mangled hands clutched to his chest. “I don’t understand,” she whispers. “I didn’t…I _didn’t_.”

“I know,” Stiles says quietly. “I’m sorry.”

Pale eyes lift to his face. “Are you going to call the police?” 

He glances down at the fucker and shakes his head. “Can’t,” he replies, tone grim. “I have to call someone else.”

“I don’t…” She shakes her head, pushing trembling fingers through pink curls. “You said mind control. Will I be…?”

“Okay?” he finishes. Bitterness settles, thick and metallic, in the back of his throat. He isn’t, not after Julia, but maybe this girl will be. Stiles intervened before the guy could finish what he started. “I think so. Just go home, call someone so you’re not alone, and maybe…shit, I dunno, drink some tea.”

“I fucking hate tea,” she murmurs, voice stronger, and Stiles smiles slightly. 

“Coffee, then. Or hot cocoa. Mini marshmallows are great for comfort.”

She hesitates, gaze flickering between Stiles and the man on the ground. Then she takes a deep breath and nods once, expression shifting to something cooler and more determined. She digs in her purse for her phone.

“I’ll go back to the bar,” she says. “Call my friend to pick me up.” Stiles nods and she takes a step back. “Thank you.”

Stiles swallows, suddenly unable to speak. He nods again and she looks away, hurrying out of the lane, back towards light and people and safety. She’s gone in seconds, the sound of her heels fading in the distance.

Stiles stays in the damp, dark lane, anger a sour, filthy taste in his mouth. The man is still on the ground, rocking slightly as he keeps his hands tucked against his jacket, eyes glazed over a little with shock. Stiles looks down at him for a moment, then sighs. He sits down opposite him, leaning back against the wall; he can feel the coldness of the brick through his jacket, the slick damp seeping through the material. Rain drizzles down on them both, drumming a quiet, tinny tune on top of the rusted cart next to Stiles.

“You know, I’m not a violent person,” he says eventually, voice low and hoarse. “Some people might argue with that, but I’m not. I fight, sure, and I will do what it takes to beat someone who’s trying to kill me. But I’m not a fan of unnecessary force or being too violent with someone when it isn’t needed. I’m not gonna torture someone or hurt them if they’re already subdued.”

He reaches out, prods slightly at the guy’s hand, and his mouth stretches wide in a silent howl, fresh tears dripping down his cheeks. He’s gone ashen, shaking slightly from pain, and Stiles shakes his head slightly.

“But you just tried to assault someone,” he continues. “You were going to fuck up her mind and assault her. You have this gift and this is how you use it. To hurt people. So, I don’t feel bad about breaking your hands. I wish I could break them for good so you can’t touch anyone ever again, ‘cause that’s how your power works, right?” He leans forward, catching and holding the asshole’s gaze. “So, here’s what’s gonna happen. I’m going to call some people who will know what to do with you. You’re going to jail, buddy. And if you ever try and use your power to hurt someone again…I’m pretty sure you’ll never, ever see the light of day again. Understood?”

A shuddering wheeze escapes him as he hunches back against the wet ground, away from Stiles. He looks suitably scared, though, so Stiles nods, satisfied. A single blow knocks him clean out and Stiles gets to his feet, dragging the guy until he’s tucked up against the wall, out of view unless someone’s _really_ paying attention. 

He looks down at him for a moment, then sighs, tipping his head back until he feels rain splattering on his face, pooling in the crease of his lips and the hollow of his throat. He can’t call the local police. They won’t know what to do with the guy; it’d be too easy for him to use his power to get free and disappear. Besides, Stiles broke the asshole’s hands, and the cops would definitely want to find out who did that. He’s trying to avoid notice, not bring even more attention to himself.

He knows there’s really only one person he can contact.

He leaves the lane, stepping out onto the street. There’s a phone box tucked in at the corner, faded red and rusty, with crude graffiti painted over the glass panels. And, across the road, CCTV cameras are pointed at the road and sidewalk.

Swallowing, Stiles shoves his hood back and removes the cap, smoothing his hair back from his face. He walks to the right, until he’s right in the camera’s line of view, and he looks straight at it, head tipped so he’s completely on display.

He leans back against the wall.

And waits.

Ten minutes later, the phone inside the public call box rings, loud and shrill in the night. Stiles looks away from the camera and ducks inside it; it stinks of piss and cider, and crumpled, empty cans and a used needle rattle and clatter against the wall as he kicks them away from his foot. He eyes the phone for a moment, _really_ not relishing the idea of having to touch it; it looks greasy and disgusting. But he forces himself to snatch it up and a familiar voice drifts into his ear.

“Hey, Bambi.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more info: a guy is creepy and uncomfortable towards a girl in the pub. He then follows her, stalking her into an alley, where he corners her, touches her wrist, and tries to use mind control to convince her she wants to have sex with him. He gets no further than this, as Stiles intervenes.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings in this chapter for: mention of broken bones, alcohol.

Stiles closes his eyes, shoulders hunching slightly, a breath trembling in his throat at the sound of Tony’s voice. It’s been so long since he’s heard him, since he’s heard _any_ of them except Jackson, and it stokes at the awful throb in his chest, the painful wistfulness curling between his ribs. He misses them. 

And, despite everything, despite what Stiles did to Tony and to Bruce, Tony’s voice isn’t angry or short; instead, he sounds curious, and he waits patiently for Stiles’s response, as if he has all the time in the world. But Stiles knows that of all the many, many things the billionaire has, a lot of them impossible, time isn’t on that list. 

“Hey,” he finally manages. 

“I’m guessing you wanted me to call,” Tony says. “Otherwise you wouldn’t have batted those eyelashes at the camera.”

“I figured either you or Coulson would pick it up,” he replies. “Wasn’t sure who would be first.”

“Me. Obviously me. SHIELD’s tech has nothing on JARVIS, are you kidding me?” Tony pauses. “So…should I take this to mean you’re done with your whole Boo Radley routine and you’re coming back? ‘Cause I gotta tell you, Cap -.”

Stiles’s heart squeezes and it _hurts_ , just the mention of Steve, so he quickly cuts Tony off. “Boo Radley was reclusive,” he points out. “I’m _el_ usive. There’s a difference.”

“Yeah, well, literature was never my strong suit.”

“Tony Stark, admitting that there’s anything he’s not a genius at?”

“Modesty isn’t my strong suit, either,” Tony drawls. “So. Should I organize a jet?”

That pulls Stiles up short. He fucked them over. He hurt and killed innocent people. He _left_ , he ran away and he’s been running ever since, and still, just like that, Tony is willing to organize him a safe flight home, the second Stiles asks for it?

It’s not right. He doesn’t deserve it.

“No,” he says hoarsely. “No. I just need you to give Coulson a message for me.”

“…I have JARVIS monitoring global CCTV networks ready to alert me if there’s any sign of you _and_ I found this number so I could call you, all so you can send Agent a message?”

“Pretty much, yeah.”

He sighs. “What’s the message?”

“He’s currently unconscious.”

“That’s…ominous. What’d you do, Bambi?”

“Injured his larynx and broke the fingers on both his hands,” Stiles admits. He pauses before adding, “He can control people’s mind.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah,” he agrees. He swallows before continuing, “But not mine. He tried. It seemed…I don’t know, he has to touch people to control them. He was using it on a woman when I intervened, trying to force her to sleep with him. He tried to use it on me. But it didn’t work.”

Tony makes a quiet, thoughtful sound. “Not…entirely unheard of. You broke through Julia Baccari’s control in the end. Might’ve somehow given you some kind of immunity to mind control. It’s happened before.”

“It has?”

“Yep. I can get you in contact with them, if you want. She’s here in the city. Not the most approachable person – she called me an asshole and threatened to break my face once - but if you come back, I’m sure she’ll talk to you.”

“I’m not coming back, Tony,” Stiles says quietly. “I just needed to contact SHIELD. This guy is dangerous. Coulson can send the welcome wagon to pick him up. Or…not so welcome wagon, I guess. But SHIELD has the ability to hold him without him using his power to get free.” 

“Sure. JARVIS already sent him a message. You gonna be there when they show up?”

“You know the answer to that.”

“So, where to next?” Tony asks casually. “’Cause I had you in Tokyo until just now. Gotta say, I’m not a fan of you being able to deceive JARVIS’s tracking system.”

“If it makes you feel better, it hasn’t been easy,” Stiles replies.

Tony’s quiet for a moment. “Just…fuck it. Take care of yourself, okay, Bambi? Don’t get killed. Cap’s kicked puppy look is enough of a pain in the ass as it is.”

Stiles hangs up.

***

He does stay.

Tony knows where he is now, will probably be monitoring him through CCTV, so he does exactly what he’s become a pro at over the months.

He disappears.

It’s not easy, trying to avoid the cameras while forging a path that won’t be detectable. Simply taking a route away from CCTV cameras is too obvious, can be easily mapped out by someone aware of the camera grid, so he has to employ every evasion tactic he knows, has to utilize buildings, rooftops and pedestrian tunnels in order to completely ghost. But he doesn’t go to the motel or leave the city; instead, after two and a half hours, he loops back towards where he left the asshole in the lane. He takes to the tops of buildings and it’s uncomfortably familiar, reminding him of New York and how intently he’d avoided notice there while under Julia’s control, but it keeps him out of range of the cameras.

Once he reaches the right building, he makes his way to the edge and crouches as he looks over. Blue lights flicker through the night, bouncing off the tall brick walls and glittering off the surface of the river a few feet away. There are two cop cars and an unmarked van parked up, blocking the end of the lane, and the headlights pierce through the rain, smudging the lane with dull yellow light. They illuminate a crowd of people clustered around the entrance of the narrow alley.

Stiles isn’t surprised that the girl called the police; he expected it. The guy is still out cold, propped up in the back of one of the police cars. A policeman is assessing his hands. There are four cops altogether and two other women, one dressed in a sharp skirt suit with tidy heels and short dark hair, the other in jeans, boots and a leather jacket, auburn hair tumbling out of a messy ponytail. Stiles knows the instant he sees them exactly who they are: it’s evident in their posture, in the way they hold themselves, the authority that spills out around them as they effortlessly take control of the situation.

They’re SHIELD.

He’s guessing they’re agents stationed here, or near to the city, and Coulson called them to get a handle on the situation until his Inhuman experts arrive to take over. It’s a smart move; it stops the local police from taking the guy in and potentially losing him if he manages to use his mind control. SHIELD is more equipped to deal with a powered criminal.

Eventually, paramedics arrive, and there appears to be a brief debate about taking the asshole to hospital for his injuries, but they settle, agreeing to treat him as best they can right here until SHIELD arrives. 

Stiles sits back and tucks his hands in his pockets. He stays there, holding his position, remaining as still as possible; the SHIELD agents seem oblivious to him, but he’s not risking the chance of drawing their attention up to him. It’s raining even more heavily, coming down in sheets, drumming on the rooftop and splashing in the river. It soaks through Stiles’s jacket and cap, slicks his hair down over his face, droplets creeping underneath his collar to slide uncomfortably down his spine. 

He knows the quinjets can make the flight in less than half the time a commercial plane would, but it still feels like forever before a couple of familiar faces round the corner, ducking through the block created by the police cars easily. 

He doesn’t know who the middle aged agent with cropped dark hair is, but he recognizes Agents Rodriguez and Johnson. Coulson himself is here, leading the team, which surprises Stiles; he hadn’t expected the Director to fly to England for this, when Daisy is usually the lead on operations involving potential Inhumans. 

What surprises him more is that Allison is with them.

It feels like his heart freezes in his chest. Like he can’t breathe. The last time he saw her, she was lying in a hospital bed, pale and still, hooked up to machines with a hole in her stomach thanks to him. And now she’s _here_. She’s close enough that, if he called out, she would hear him. She would look up. 

He doesn’t.  
Seeing her hurts. It opens up an old, raw wound in Stiles’s chest and guilt wars with yearning in his heart. He misses her. He misses all of them. And he wants so badly to get closer, to touch Allison, to see if she’s okay, but he doesn’t. He can’t.

She’s kept her hair short, curling just above her collarbones, and she isn’t dressed in her SHIELD uniform; instead, she’s wearing high waisted jeans, boots and a cropped grey sweater under a jacket that Stiles suspects is Bucky’s. She holds herself straight, walking confidently, and there’s no pain or hesitation in her posture. 

It’s been four months. She’ll have healed a lot, especially as the internal damage was, thankfully, _miraculously_ , minimal, but she should still be tender. The wound will still be a little sore, the scar fresh enough to cause some lingering pain, and after having to be inactive for so long to recover, regaining her strength will be difficult as well.   
But here she is. With SHIELD, an ICER holstered on her thigh, giving no signs of being in pain. 

The pride and love he feels for her is almost crushing, at odds with the awful, relentless guilt he feels. 

He curls his fingers around the edge of the small border on the rooftop. Grit bites into his palms, grounding him, and he takes a deep breath as he gazes down into the lane.  
The guy is just starting to wake up and Daisy goes straight over. Her back is to Stiles; he can’t see what she says, but the man mouths something, desperate and pained. He reaches out, trying to reach bare skin with his broken fingers, and Daisy steps back, holds out her own hand. There’s a quiet rumble and Stiles can feel the vibration rattling his bones as she shatters a chunk of brick and mortar with her power. As warnings go, it’s pretty efficient; the man instantly cringes back. 

Coulson speaks to the two agents first and they leave a minute later, climbing into the unmarked van. It disappears down the road as Coulson turns to one of the cops, talking to them for a few moments. He gestures to Bobbi and the male agent and she nods, leading the way out of the lane, presumably to go to the girl’s house to talk to her about what happened. 

Stiles pushes up to his feet carefully. SHIELD is here now. They’ll keep the guy contained and make sure he faces justice. They’ll help the girl. His role in this is over. 

It’s time for him to go.

He’s about to turn away when Daisy suddenly looks over her shoulder. Her gaze sweeps around before lifting, finding him immediately, and he goes very still, frozen to the spot by her attention. Allison and Coulson both have their backs to him, speaking with the police and paramedics as they organize taking over responsibility for the potential Inhuman, but Daisy stares up at him.

She doesn’t call out. She doesn’t alert the others; she doesn’t say a word. She just gazes at him for a long moment.

Stiles dips his head slightly in silent gratitude and steps back. She drops her gaze, looks away before the others notice, and Stiles steps back from the edge of the roof, drawing in a deep breath. 

He allows himself one last, lingering look at Allison before he turns, disappearing into the darkness.

***

He knows that JARVIS’s tracking software will be adjusting now Tony knows that Stiles had tricked it, had fed it false trails and gone to places the predictions hadn’t accounted for. It’ll take that into account, use the new patterns to monitor Stiles’s travels, and Tony will be paying more attention to any potential tricks. 

Stiles suspects he knows what Tony will predict now, where JARVIS will assume Stiles will go. 

So he does the exact opposite of what they would expect.

It isn’t easy; Tony will be keeping an eye on airports, so making sure his cover and false documents are impenetrable is paramount. His disguise, making sure the cameras can’t pick up _any_ similarities in both his looks and his posture and gait in order to identify him, is a pain in the ass to sort out. But he pulls it off; he lays down the false leads, makes it through the airport and boards the plane without any problems.

Still, he can’t really relax for the flight. He’s surrounded by people and paranoia curls around the base of his spine, sharp teeth scraping bone as it bites into him. Anxiety simmers in his belly when they land and he shuffles off the plane, keeping an eye on his surroundings without making it obvious. He half suspects that someone might be waiting for him, that he’s been caught out or Tony knows where he is, but before long, he’s out of the airport, going completely unnoticed by everyone around him.

For the first time in months, he’s back on American soil.

It’s muggy, thick, sticky heat hanging in the air, and when he breathes in, dampness clings inside his lungs, settling slick and uncomfortable on his skin. Sweat prickles the back of his neck and at his hairline; within minutes of walking, his hair is drenched, flopping over his face. His cap and sunglasses do little to ease the glare of the sun.

He employs his usual evasion manoeuvres, mentally mapping out the area and it’s various surveillance systems, making note of the best and worst spots. After an hour of walking, he heads into a mall. It’s packed with people, full of tourists and families on vacation, as well as locals getting in supplies for 4th of July celebrations. Stiles wanders around, browsing different departments, and grabs something to eat at a food court, before eventually ducking into one of the bathrooms.

Inside one of the stalls, he makes quick work of removing his denim cut offs, shirt and walking boots, and tugs out a pile of rolled up clothes from his backpack; basketball shorts, a white sports tank, and sandals. The shoes are comfortable and, better still, designed for sports, so they’re still suitable if he finds himself in a situation where he needs to run or fight, but they look casual, fit for the sticky summer heatwave. He changes into them and slides a travel shaving kit and some hair gel out of one of the exterior pockets. 

He doesn’t shave his scruff off completely, instead styling into a light stubble beard, and he uses the hair gel to slick his hair back. He swaps his knock-off Ray-Bans for a pair of Tom Ford aviators and his tan snapback for a Seattle Thunderbirds cap. He’d swapped his old backpack for one more suitable for travelling weeks ago; this one is a little larger and, best of all, reversible. He removes the contents and tugs it until the khaki is on the inside and sleek, waterproof navy is on the outside. 

He stuffs the walking boots back into the backpack along with everything else except for the cut offs, shirt, and discarded sunglasses and snapback. Those, he squishes up into the smallest bundle possible and shoves into the trash can, dumping some paper towels on top so they’ll just get thrown away by an oblivious janitor. He looks in the mirror, huffing a quiet laugh; he looks like a douchebag. He’ll blend in easily with the frat assholes and gym rats swarming the area.

A guy with his son enters the bathroom. Stiles washes his hands and, just five minutes since ducking inside the restroom, he leaves. He doesn’t duck his head or do anything that’ll draw attention to himself, but his posture and gait is different from when he’d first entered the mall. Now, he walks slowly and confidently, swaggering slightly, his shoulders back and chest forward, chin tipped up just a touch. 

He’s Rob Lambert. He’s twenty nine, his birthday is the 7th of July, and he’s a personal trainer from Seattle. He’s currently travelling around the US ahead of his birthday to tick off a bucket list; he’s here in Miami for the beaches and partying. He hates baseball and loves ice hockey almost as much as he loves himself. 

He buys some deodorant and shampoo from a store in the mall; it’s less suspicious than going through the place without buying anything at all. He leaves several minutes later, stepping out into the humid heat.

He finds a bar near the beach that’s shaded by tall trees and has enough fans inside to keep the interior cool and refreshing. There’s an empty booth tucked in one corner and he orders a beer before heading over to it, getting settled. The hard plastic is uncomfortable under his ass, the wood table rough against his palms, but the bar isn’t too crowded or noisy, which is a nice change. He curls his fingers around the cold bottle, letting condensation drip down his wrist, little droplets of ice that take the edge off how warm he is. 

There’s a TV hung up in one corner, a tiny, boxy thing; sunlight slits through the window closest to it, lighting up the film of dust on the screen. It’s playing a news segment, but there’s nothing of particular interest to him. He watches it anyway, steadily drinking his beer, letting the icy liquid cool him down. What happened in Bristol keeps weighing on him; no matter how many times he reminds himself that it’s over, that the guy was stopped and Stiles’s involvement in it is over, it still niggles at him, constant and persistent in the back of his mind. He wants to know what happened after he left, wants to know what happened to the guy and whether the woman is okay. 

Sighing, he drains the rest of his drink and gets up, depositing the empty bottle on the bar. He catches the bartender’s gaze.

“Is there an internet café or something near here, bud?” he asks.

He gives Stiles a slightly odd look; probably because, these days, everyone has the internet on their phone or tablet, so public internet cafes are pretty much obsolete. Stiles shrugs, offering a charming smile.

“Broke my phone,” he explains. “I’m plannin’ on getting it fixed while I’m here.”

The bartender shrugs slightly. “There’s a library on 22nd Street. They have computers there.” He rattles off some quick directions. 

Stiles nods. “Cheers, pal.”

He makes his way out of the bar, taking a moment to orient himself. It’s not too far of a walk, but it’s not the most comfortable of trips. Stiles has experienced California summers and New York heatwaves, but never this wet, gummy, stifling heat. It feels like he’s being crushed between the sticky sidewalk and the sultry sky; like he could drown in the damp heat. 

He finds the library and heads inside. It is, thankfully, well equipped with air conditioners, and he lingers in the entrance for a minute, savouring the wash of cool, dry air that rolls over him, ruffling his sweat-slick hair a little. The computers are easy to find and he beelines for one towards the end of the row, away from the few others using the bank of machines. He drops his backpack onto the floor, tucked securely between his calves, and keeps his cap on as he jiggles the mouse to wake the computer up. It opens up onto an internet browser and he types in a quick search. 

Several articles fill the results. Stiles clicks on the top one, skims over the story, and his heart sinks. 

The girl had recognized him.

_“It was definitely him,” Hanna Taylor told our correspondent. “He looked different, but I recognized him from the news. It was Stiles Stilinski. And he saved me.”_

_When asked about the claims of Mr Stilinski being under mind control during the events in New York last winter, Miss Taylor replied: “He looked sad. Like he was haunted. But he saved me. He saw what that guy was doing and he stopped him. He made sure I would be okay and that he wouldn’t be able to hurt anyone again. That doesn’t seem like a bad guy to me.”_

Stiles blows out a breath. His face is being splashed over the news all over again, but this time, the majority of people are praising him. They’re comparing him to vigilantes, like he’s going around saving people, cleaning up the streets and protecting places, like he’s travelling the world to…to do good, to _help_ people.

They’re calling him a _hero_.

It makes him feel sick.

He has to take a moment to just breathe, bile stinging in his throat, before he continues flicking through various news sources on the incident in Bristol. SHIELD have issued a statement claiming Stiles as an agent, but refusing to confirm his involvement, only stating that the man was in custody and investigations into criminal usage of his power are underway.

It’s a smart move from Coulson. Both SHIELD and the Avengers are in good public standing again, following a couple of team ups to protect New York. Their opinion carries positive weight and linking Stiles to SHIELD casts him in a better light, connecting him to an organization designed to protect and help people rather than a lone renegade who might still be a threat. 

Stiles’s name had been cleared. _Officially_ , it’s been decided that he isn’t responsible for anything that happened, since he was forced to do it against his will. Unofficially, though, public opinion is a different matter, but now Steve and Coulson are changing that, swaying people to see him as a victim and a hero rather than a threat. 

There’s a lump in his throat. After everything he’d done, after he left, after _all this time_ , and they’re still trying to protect him. 

On one article, there’s a video, and Stiles is surprised to see Lydia in the thumbnail. He hesitates, unsure if he’s got the strength to see her so soon after being so close to Allison, but he wants to know what the video is about. He slips a pair of headphones out of his backpack and plugs them in, clicking on the thumbnail.

The video is from yesterday, just twelve hours after the incident in Bristol broke on the news. It’s a talk show and Lydia’s one of the guests. She looks as effortlessly, breathtakingly beautiful as ever, her red hair curling over one shoulder, dainty patent leather heels on her feet. She’s sat next to the other guest, a man in a crisp grey suit with thinning, sandy hair. 

Rupert Donlan. Stiles recognizes him; a New York politician who’s campaigning for a Senate seat. He’s one of the more vocal criticizers of superheroes and powered individuals. Just a year ago, he’d targeted Daisy, claiming that an Inhuman with such potentially catastrophic abilities shouldn’t be trusted in an agency like SHIELD, and he’d managed to sway a lot of supporters, until she used her gift to save nearly a hundred lives; there was no coming back from that for Donlan.

It isn’t a surprise that Stiles is his new target.

“I’m sure Mr Stilinski isn’t a bad person,” he’s saying, charming and amicable, a civil smile on his face as he talks to the host. “I’m simply saying that he could be a threat.”

“As much of a threat as any trained Marine?” Lydia replies evenly. “There are plenty of people out there with the same skills and knowledge as Stiles Stilinski. I don’t see them being targeted.”

“Well, they didn’t blow up part of Central Park,” Rupert counters. “Mr Stilinski’s current location is unknown. I’m sure the countries he’s been travelling through would be concerned to know such a threat is being left unchecked.”

“I’m sure the UK isn’t too upset,” the host, Melissa, points out. “In fact, Miss Taylor seems incredibly grateful. Stiles Stilinski stopped a very dangerous individual and ensured he would be taken into secure custody. That doesn’t sound like a threat to me.”

“One act of good doesn’t cancel out what he did -.”

“That wasn’t him. He was being mind-controlled. He had no choice.” Lydia’s voice is calm and steady, but steel threads through it. “He was a victim. And he was cleared of all responsibility for what happened.”

“ _Allegedly_ mind-controlled,” Rupert argues. “We can’t know for certain -.”

“Actually, we can,” she cuts him off again, smiling serenely. “After all, we have physical evidence provided by Dr Simmons and verified by independent medical experts. Brain scans that show the effect of the mind control, tests that confirm levels of serotonin that are almost dangerously off the charts, beyond anything that can be produced by chemical interventions. Physical, undeniable evidence, provided and verified by people who, with all due respect, Mr Donlan, actually have the knowledge, qualifications and experience to determine whether or not something is _alleged_.”

His face goes ruddy and he clears his throat, fiddling with his cuff links. Melissa presses her lips together to hold back a smile and a familiar, bittersweet twist of awed fondness knots in Stiles’s chest. Poor Donlan never stood a chance against Lydia Martin.

“Furthermore,” she continues, still sugar-sweet. “Numerous reports were issued by others who were mind-controlled. Not just agents of SHIELD, but civilians, members of the public as well as powerful figures of authority. They were interviewed separately and their experience of the mind control all matched. _Hundreds_ of reports that were all determined to be truthful. All of this evidence was reviewed and Stiles Stilinski was cleared by those qualified to make that kind of decision.” 

The ‘ _unlike you_ ’ is unspoken but obvious and Donlan inhales sharply, shoulders tightening slightly. He’s indignant, but trying to remain visibly calm and unaffected by her words. Lydia simply smiles at him, hands folded delicately on her crossed knee. 

“Well, yes,” he agrees after a moment. “But that doesn’t mean he isn’t a potential loose cannon.” His eyes light up slightly as he quickly switches track. “After all, the emotional effects of being controlled like that must be severe. He could be a risk to himself and others.”

“Yet the only report of violence regarding him involved him stopping an attempted sexual assault,” Lydia replies. “Forgive me for not being too concerned about that.”

“I’m surprised by your vehemence, Miss Martin. I understand he’s your friend, but didn’t his actions result in you almost losing your job? Your doctorate was briefly suspended, after all.”

Stiles swallows. He hadn’t known that. He’d never even _considered_ it, but, fuck, it makes sense. Bruce’s notes on Klapow’s serum had included references to Lydia’s assistance. When Julia had released those files to the media, it didn’t just sink Bruce. Lydia was pulled down as well.

Guilt and self-loathing eats into his heart, cold and ruthless. One of his best friends and he nearly tanked her whole career. And yet she’s still sat there, _defending_ him. 

He doesn’t deserve her. He doesn’t deserve any of them.

“Yes,” Lydia says. “I don’t regret assisting Dr Banner with the formula. After all, our intention wasn’t for it to be used, but to work from it to create a counter-serum, so we could _help_ people. In fact, I believe an adaptation of our formula has been used in several medical cases since then, hasn’t it? It saved the life of a child who, without it, wouldn’t have lived long enough for surgery to fix her lungs.

“After what happened, after what _Julia Baccari_ did, yes, I did face an enquiry, but I was ultimately cleared. I still have my job and I’m close to completing my doctorate. But, please, do tell me how any of this is relevant?”

Stiles could kiss her. He’s always been in complete awe of Lydia and her cool, self-assured ability to master words and arguments, twisting opponents up until they end up agreeing with her. She’s gone toe to toe with Tony Stark and won; she’s a goddamn force to be reckoned with. 

God, he misses her.

“I simply don’t think it’s right for people to run around unchecked, taking the law into their own hands,” Donlan tries. “After all, what gives Mr Stilinski the right to wander around the world, inflicting justice where _he_ sees fit?” 

Lydia smiles, but her eyes are sharp. “Well, for one, he _didn’t_ take the law into his own hands. He called SHIELD, an organization who _does_ have the right to arrest someone and bring them to justice. What he did isn’t different from any civilian preventing an attempted assault. And, secondly, I find it interesting that you so vehemently campaign _against_ vigilantes, but they’re the ones clearing up the streets and protecting people. If politicians such as yourself actually did your job and were more interested in helping citizens rather than lining your own pockets, society wouldn’t be as reliant on vigilantes and superheroes for protection.”

“Holy shit,” Stiles whispers.

“I’m concerned by your insistence on inciting campaigns and attempts to hunt Mr Stilinski down, considering he was _legally_ cleared of all the things you’re accusing him off,” she adds. “I’d quite like to discuss what gives you the right, legal or otherwise, to do that. But what concerns me more is your assertation that vigilantes shouldn’t be allowed to run around, taking the law into their own hands. Because isn’t that almost verbatim what Julia Baccari said, right before she tried to blow up New York?”

“Holy _shit_ ,” Stiles repeats, incredulous. Lydia has balls of fucking _steel_. She’d circled like a shark, twisting poor Donlan up with his own words and half-baked arguments, and then she’d struck, quick and lethal. 

Linking his opinion to that of Julia Baccari, someone who hurt and killed and controlled so many people, is a sure fire way to make sure no one will want to touch Donlan with a ten foot pole after this. 

For a moment, Rupert blusters, while Lydia just smiles at him, calm and expectant. She already knows she’s won; she’s simply waiting for him to acknowledge it too, or embarrass himself some more. 

Melissa clears her throat. “I have some statements regarding Mr Stilinski’s involvement with Julia Baccari, including from Captain Rogers -.”

Stiles stops the video. He’s already reeling from Lydia’s vehement defence of him; from her dedication to protect him, to the point of going on to a popular talk show in order to debate with a politician. He can’t bear to hear whatever it is Steve’s said about him. It hurts too much just to think about him.

He closes down the webpage and tucks his headphones away, blowing out a breath. He rubs his hands over his face, taking a moment to collect himself, before sliding his sunglasses back on and getting to his feet. He leaves the library, immediately swallowed by muggy heat as he steps outside, and he starts walking with no real destination in mind. Lydia’s words keep bouncing around inside his skull, echoed with the comments on the articles about what happened in Bristol.

A _hero_.  
Bitterness, ugly and cruel, chokes him, squeezing around his lungs until he can’t breathe. He’s not a hero, not even close. 

He’s nothing.

***

He stays in Miami for two days.

The motel he books into is cheap and grimy, but the kind of place where no questions will be asked of him. He spends most of his time there, but on the 4th, he goes to the beach and finds a vacant spot in the sand.

He sits down, warm sand tickling his feet and stars twinkling above him, oblivious of the celebrations going on around him. A fire crackles further down the beach. Fireworks light up the sky, streaking the inky darkness with vibrant color, and it reflects off the smooth surface of the ocean, a blurry patchwork of red, white and blue. 

He tips his head back and stares at the fireworks until his eyes start to water, and says three words, softly, so only the stars can hear.

“Happy birthday, Steve.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for: graphic violence, blood, knives, gunshot wounds, gore, teeth, brief mention of suicide.

He stays in the States.

He won’t go anywhere near New York; it’s too risky. But he allows himself to do the things he’s always thought about doing now he has the time. When he’d first left and moved from state to state, he hadn’t allowed himself to pause and rest or see the sights; he’d been driven by the overwhelming need to keep running. 

Now, that itch is still there, but it’s less persistent. He doesn’t feel like it’s drowning him anymore. Especially now he knows that, while JARVIS is likely still trying to track him to keep an eye on him, they’re not actively searching for him to find him. He can deceive JARVIS’s systems – up to a point, anyway – and none of them will expect him to be in America now. 

So he visits DC. He blends in with the swarm of tourists taking pictures of the Lincoln Memorial and the Washington Monument. He stands in the National Mall, watches the reflection of fluffy clouds whisper across the water, and thinks about Steve. He used to run here often, back when he lived in a SHIELD-issue apartment in DC, before he decided to move to New York.

_“It’s home,”_ he’d said when Stiles asked why. _“It’s changed a whole lot, but it’s still home.”_

He visits the Smithsonian. Part of him is tempted to visit the Captain America exhibit, but he knows it would hurt too much. Besides, he wouldn’t be surprised if JARVIS is monitoring it, just in case he shows up. He’s seen it all before, anyway; Steve’s life, splayed out in front of him, before he ever met Stiles.

He hikes in the Grand Canyon. He admires the beautiful, gleaming sliver of the Colorado River twisting and cutting its way through the towering rock formations. He explores some of Glacier National Park; spends an hour gazing at a waterfall, wishing he could take a picture and send it to Steve, because it’s exactly the kind of thing he would love to draw. 

He hires a canoe to spend some time on Lake Tahoe, whale watches in Juneau, and watches sunrise spill over the harbour in Charleston. He tries Clam Chowder in Outer Banks, explores the Olympic Sculpture Park in Seattle, spends a night on Bourbon Street in New Orleans; he goes on an architecture river cruise in Chicago, sees moose and elk in Grand Teton National Park. He explores Yellowstone, spends four days hiking part of the Appalachian Trail, and visits the most beautiful parts of Yosemite. 

July fades into August. August creeps into September. The weather is still warm, but the thick summer heat is starting to ease off. He’s tired, so incredibly exhausted. 

In a bar in Oregon, he watches a news segment on the Avengers; they’ve just defeated some asshole firebreather trying to take over the city. Hulk isn’t with them. Bruce, like Lydia, had been cleared after an enquiry into his work on Klapow’s serum, but he’s still missing. He’s still running, just like Stiles.

_Because_ of Stiles.

Two weeks into September, he goes to Beacon Hills.

It’s a risk. He knows how much of a risk it is. But he also knows Beacon Hills; it’s more familiar to him than the scars on his palms or the rot in his heart. He knows how to get around it without being noticed, regardless of how recognizable his face is; he’d snuck around plenty of times as a kid, after all, back when he was the Sheriff’s son and getting caught would result in being grounded. The town hasn’t changed much in the years since he moved away, either; avoiding cameras and people is easy enough, especially disguised. 

It’s raining when he steps off the bus. 

It comes down in heavy sheets, drenching him in seconds. Dark clouds smear across the sky, washing the town with bleak grey, and puddles splash around his bare ankles as he walks, shoulders hunched against the heavy droplets slicing down around him. 

He stops briefly at the store, then makes his way to the cemetery, ducking through the rusted gates. The grass is lush but sodden due to the rain, squelching under his shoes. The trees sway in the wind, leaves rustling like whispers around him, and it’s empty, quiet; he’s alone, surrounded by gravestones. The rain blurs the edges of the cemetery until it feels cut off from the rest of the world, isolated and lonely. He picks his way through the rows of gravestones, stopping in front of his mother’s.

There’s the usual bouquet of white and pink carnations tucked up against the headstone, as well as some sunflowers and a bunch of wildflowers. He knows the sunflowers are from Melissa and the wildflowers are from his dad; he’d always wake Claudia up on her birthday with breakfast in bed and some handpicked wildflowers from the garden. 

Stiles swallows. He crouches, placing a bouquet of yellow roses carefully on top of the grave. His mom had always loved them, more than the traditional red or delicate pink roses. She liked the cheerful, sunny yellow, would fill the house with them in the summer so the kitchen was filled with the sweet scent and sunshine gleamed off the glossy petals. 

“Happy birthday, mom,” he says quietly. “I’m sorry I’m a couple of days late this year. It’s…it’s not been the best year.”

He shifts until his knees sink into the sodden grass, soggy dirt squelching up over his skin. Rain batters down on him, soaking his hair and his shirt, and he reaches out, tracing his fingertips over smooth, worn stone. 

“Actually, it’s been a pretty shit year,” he whispers. “I fucked up, mom. I did some awful things. And I…I let her use you. I let her get into my head and make me think you’d be proud of me for what I did. But you wouldn’t. I know you wouldn’t.”

He swallows, wiping at his face. Tears mingle with raindrops on his cheeks, dripping the taste of salt onto his lips. “I used to think you were watching over me,” he admits. “It was comforting, the idea that you were out there somewhere, looking out for me, watching me grow up. I used to think you’d be proud of me for getting through school and college, for joining SHIELD, for trying to help people. It made the fact that you’re gone easier. Now, though…” 

He trails off for a moment, mouth trembling as he tries to wrestle back more tears. The words tangle in his throat and taste awful on his tongue as he says them.

“Now, I hope you’re not watching over me. Because I know you’d hate what you'd see.”

A sob splinters out of him and he sags forward, resting his forehead against his bent knees as he cries. He doesn’t know how long he stays there, stained with damp dirt and grass, hunched over his mother’s grave as he cries and cries until he has nothing left. 

It doesn’t feel cleansing. It doesn’t feel like a relief. It just feels fucking awful.

Eventually, he can’t squeeze any more tears out. He feels drained, completely emotionally exhausted, and his eyes sting from crying so much, his throat dry and sore from sobbing. He scrubs at his face, catching his breath, and it takes him several minutes to get the energy to push up to his feet. 

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, looking down at the headstone. “I’m so sorry, mom.”

It hurts, turning his back on the grave, but he forces himself to put one foot in front of the other until he reaches the cemetery gates. An unsettled feeling slithers down his spine as he reaches them and he pauses, glancing back.

It’s raining too hard to really make out the person stood at his mother’s grave, but he knows it’s his dad. And he knows he’s looking at Stiles. That he recognizes Stiles too, despite the rain, despite Stiles’s beard and longer hair. 

One hand lifts slightly. A silent plea. _Wait_. A silent comfort. _I’m here_.

Stiles swallows. He feels bruised, split open and raw, and he trembles slightly with the urge to run to his dad, to bury his face in his father’s old jacket, to try and chase away the ugliness of the world by seeking refuge in his dad’s arms. 

But it didn’t work when he was a kid and it won’t work now. Nothing can scrub away the ugliness inside of him.

He walks away.

***

Kolkata is enchantingly beautiful.

The weather is warm, for now untouched by the threat of rain, and the mix of incredible architecture and urban industrialization is amazing. If he had the time, he’d allow himself to see the sights, to really explore the city, but he’s here for a reason.

His Bengali isn’t very good, but his Hindi is decent enough to ask around, until eventually a local is able to give him the information he needs. His hunch had been spot on; he’s in the right place. 

Sonajhuri Forest is almost mesmerizing, lush and green and still blooming with brilliant flowers. Kingfishers chirrup from the branches of trees and Stiles knows that, if he were to wander deeper into the forest, he might be lucky enough to see a jackal or a spotted deer. The Kopai River skims through the trees, clean and pristine, the quiet, rippling sound of flowing water a peaceful sound in the otherwise quiet forest. The surface of the water reflects the verdant trees around it, so beautiful, like a work of art. Stiles walks alongside it, savouring the quiet serenity, trying to steel himself ahead of what he’s about to do. 

Eventually, though, he follows the directions he’d been given, until he reaches a small, single-storey house, tucked away from civilization and close to the scenic comfort of the forest. 

Bruce is sat outside at a tiny, wrought iron table laden with a jug of ice water and a plate full of fruit. He’s bent over what looks like a book of crossword puzzles, a thin layer of sweat gleaming on his forehead, his shirt sleeves rolled up to expose strong forearms dusted with dark hair. Absent-mindedly, he swats at a fly buzzing near his ear, scribbling something down with a Biro. 

Stiles moves closer, quietly, until he’s just a few feet away. Bruce still seems oblivious, absorbed in his puzzle, and Stiles takes a slow, deep breath, bracing himself. 

“Dr Banner.”

His head snaps up. Stiles has a split second to see green flush across Bruce’s face and the way his skin ripples before the familiar, chilling sound of fabric tearing and exploding cuts through the air. There’s an awful, vicious snarl and Stiles jerks back a step before he can help himself, heart thundering behind his ribs.

Hulk roars, loud enough to rattle Stiles’s bones and send ice scraping down his spine. Birds launch from the trees, flying away, and for a moment after, silence settles, thick and heavy, over them. Then, between one blink and the next, the Hulk is right in front of Stiles, close enough for hot breath to slap him in the face. 

Stiles swallows, but doesn’t step back or run away. He braces himself, squares his shoulders, and tips his head up to look him right in the eyes. Hulk hunches forward, dipping until his face is closer to Stiles’s, and a little snarl punches out between clenched teeth. Huge, meaty hands are clenched into fists and he shudders slightly, his anger so palpable that Stiles can almost taste it, bitter and metallic, in the back of his throat.

Still and silent, Stiles waits for the inevitable.

Several long, tense seconds tick by. Then, with a huff, the Hulk prods at Stiles with a stubby finger. It’s enough to knock Stiles back onto his ass, but it doesn’t _hurt_ , not even slightly. His chest won’t even bruise from the jab. Surprised, he stays there, frowning in surprised confusion as Hulk pokes him again, pointedly but, again, not painfully, before turning away.

The ground vibrates slightly with the impact of the Hulk stomping back towards the table. He eyes the small chair for a moment before planting himself down on his own ass, careless of his nudity as he bends his knees and rests his forearms on them.

He looks… _disgruntled_.

“Uh,” Stiles manages. “Okay.”

He should be paste on the ground. He knows Bruce and his green alter ego have more of a symbiotic relationship these days; somewhere along the line, they’d reached a kind of understanding, merging and blending themselves into something more controllable, something calmer and less destructive, but still just as powerful. Just as _heroic_ , under the right circumstances.

But Stiles had almost blown him up. He’d used explosives to force Bruce into Hulking out. The Hulk had killed someone and caused all sorts of property damage. Stiles’s actions are why Bruce is out here again, hiding, once again scared of himself and what he’s capable of if he loses control. The Hulk should be angry. Angry enough to smash Stiles into viscera on the ground.

Hulk looks at him. The rage is there, glinting deep down in those eyes, and it’s chilling, but he’s clearly got it under control. He just looks at Stiles, clearly not interested in tearing him apart just yet.

“Well,” Stiles says. “That’s a relief. Thanks for not punching me into next Sunday, big guy.”

He snorts, looking away. After a moment, Stiles climbs tentatively to his feet. When Hulk doesn’t react, he carefully makes his way forward, until he’s stood next to the table. If he reaches out, he’d be able to touch Hulk’s bicep, but still he just sits there, completely unbothered by Stiles’s proximity.

Stiles doesn’t know what to make of that.

“So, um. Nice place you’ve got here.” Stiles glances at the house, then around at the trees. “Nice and…lonely.”

Another snort. Hulk reaches out, flicking the plate of fruit, and it skids violently across the table. Stiles snatches it out of reflex, stopping it from toppling over, and he looks from Hulk’s expectant face to the mountain of fruit. 

“Uh…thanks.”

He picks up a slice of mango, biting into it. It’s ridiculously delicious. He’d eaten a few hours ago and he’s been steadily drinking from his bottle of water, but his stomach growls at the taste and the burst of sweet juice on his tongue soothes his throat. He’s warm, but the fruit helps cool him down a little. He eats a few more slices and some grapes, then nudges the plate back across the table.

Hulk looks at it. He carefully picks it up between his thumb and forefinger; it looks comically tiny in his grip, like a dollhouse prop, and Stiles finds himself having to bite back a laugh. He opens his mouth, tips the plate, and swallows the remaining fruit in one gulp. Pulp clings to his teeth as he lets the plate rattle back onto the table.

Stiles sits down in the chair. The metal is hot, warming his skin through the thin material of his shorts, and he lean back against the cool stone of the house. 

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “For…fuck, for everything. For surprising you just now. For what I did in New York. For making you run again. I’m so sorry.”

He’s answered by a little rumble that sounds somewhere between disgruntled and exasperated. After that, he lapses into silence, and now it’s clear that he’s not going to die in the next few minutes, it’s actually quite comfortable. It’s nice to have some company. Bruce’s presence has always been a kind of calming comfort to Stiles and it’s no different now he’s Hulked out. He’s quiet, watching the trees steadily, and Stiles relaxes, allowing himself to close his eyes.

They snap open again when something clatters onto the table next to him. He jerks upright, startled, and rubs crustiness from the corners of his eyes. Bruce is stood on the other side of the table, dressed in linen pants and a blue shirt, the sleeves rolled up and the top couple of buttons left undone to keep him cool. He gazes calmly at Stiles as he tucks a second chair up against the table and sits down, adjusting the tray he’d set down. A teapot and two little cups rest on top of it.

“How long was I out?” Stiles asks, mouth a little gummy from his unexpected nap.

“Couple of hours.”

“Sorry.”

Bruce gives him an unfathomable look. He doesn’t answer, just busies himself with pouring tea. It’s nearly dusk; the warm weather has cooled off a little, a gentle breeze whispering through the trees. A hot drink will be nice. 

Stiles picks up his cup, blowing across the surface before taking a sip. It’s delicate, fragrant, with a kind of musky-sweet taste; he isn’t usually a huge fan of tea, but it’s good. He takes another drink from his cup before setting it down.

“I hear you’ve been busy,” Bruce says. “I heard about what happened in Bristol. You’ve been travelling? Where?”

“Around.”

“I’m sure the others are looking for you.”

Stiles tilts his head slightly. “I’m pretty sure they’re looking for you, too.”

Bruce’s smile is small and a little bitter. “The last time I thought I’d safely hidden myself, SHIELD knew exactly where I was and sent Natasha to recruit me. I decided to come back here instead of trying somewhere else. They know exactly where I am.”

“They’re giving you your space,” Stiles says.

He nods, sipping his tea. Stiles fiddles with his own cup, gently spinning it on the spot, watching ripples shimmer across the surface of the hot liquid. In the distance, he can hear birdsong, piercing soft and shrill through the air.

“What are you doing here, Stiles?”

“I came to apologize.” 

Bruce looks at him. “For what happened in New York.”

“For everything I did,” Stiles replies. He pauses, then asks, “Why didn’t you kill me?”

“Did you want me to?”

“ _No_. God, no, but I just…I knew there was a strong possibility it would happen. That the Hulk would be pissed enough at me.”

“But you came here anyway,” Bruce says. “To apologize.”

“Yeah.”

He shakes his head slightly. “I’m not angry with you, Stiles. And the other guy isn’t either. He doesn’t want to kill you, or hurt you.”

“But after what I did –.”

“I don’t blame you. It wasn’t your fault.”

“ _I_ set up those explosives. I used your trust to gain access to the places I left them. I set them off. _I_ did that to you, Bruce.”

“No,” he replies quietly. “You didn’t. Julia Baccari did.”

Stiles exhales sharply, looking away. He knocks back a mouthful of tea, gazing out at the trees. 

“It wasn’t _your_ fault,” he says after a moment. “What happened, I mean. I know you came here because you blame yourself.”

“I killed somebody.”

“Julia killed her. Erin was starting to have doubts and Julia knew it. She deliberately put her where she did, knowing what would happen. She controlled Erin. She organized what happened to you. What happened is on Julia. Not you.” 

Bruce looks at him. “Maybe you should listen to yourself,” he points out. “If it was Julia’s fault what happened to Erin Sullivan, then you’re not to blame for anything, either. Stop blaming yourself, Stiles.”

“Maybe _you_ should take your own advice,” he counters.

“I have experience of being out of my own control. I know what it’s like to do things I don’t want to do. To hurt and kill people without any choice in it. I’ve been living with that for a long time. So I _know_ , Stiles. I understand. But what happened, any of it, _all_ of it, it wasn’t your fault.” 

Stiles swallows and looks away. He can’t answer that. He _has_ no answer for it. On the surface, what Bruce says makes sense, and he knows how hypocritical it is to tell Bruce not to blame himself when Stiles is doing the exact same thing. But it doesn’t change anything. It doesn’t change how Stiles feels. 

“You should go home,” he says quietly. “Go back to where you belong.”

“Maybe,” Bruce allows. “Will you?”

Stiles shakes his head. “I can’t.”

“You can. I know what it’s like to keep running away. Look at where I am, Stiles. This is my version of running.” He finishes his tea, setting his cup down, and gazes steadily at Stiles. “And when you change your mind, they’ll be waiting for you.”

Stiles meets his gaze. “Right back at you, Bruce.”

***

Three weeks later, while sat in a bar in Maine, Stiles watches live news coverage of the Avengers in New York.

They’re trying to subdue a group of powerful Inhumans on a crime spree through the city. The news cameras can’t get close to the epicentre of the action, but the sky darkens with the threat of a storm; Thor is on Earth. 

A quinjet slices through the sky towards the battle. He watches as the back of the jet opens and a figure jumps out; the tiniest dot tumbles through the air. 

Halfway to the ground, Bruce transforms into the Hulk, landing on a rooftop with a roar, and Stiles smiles. 

***

Nine days finds him in a small, rural town in Arizona for a fortnight.

His funds are low. He can’t keep travelling until he’s got a decent amount of money again. He’d run out of false documents a month ago, but a quick stop in California had helped him stock up again; as the Sheriff’s son, he’d spent plenty of time hanging around the police station as a teen, and he’d befriended some people his dad probably wouldn’t approve of. Having those kinds of contacts still comes in handy, all these years later.

He manages to get another discreet cash in hand job at a small diner. It’s a greasy mom-and-pop type place, run by Joe and Lori, a couple in their fifties. It’s on the outskirts of town, on a long, dusty road; it’s the only building on it, except for the tiny gas station conveniently situated right across from the diner. It’s the kind of place where locals might make a short trip out to grab a bite to eat or local high schoolers swarm to on a Saturday for milkshakes and burgers, but most of its patrons are truckers or tourists, stopping to grab food after getting gas at the station. 

Stiles is aware that Joe and Lori know exactly who he is, but they never mention it. Instead, they ask him his name – ‘Evan’ – and leave it at that. They keep him off their books, put him to work in the kitchen with their sons, and pay him in cash at the end of each day. In return, Stiles stays in the back, out of sight of any customers, and keeps his head down. 

He rents a motel room in a seedy place a mile down the road from the diner. It’s just as isolated as the diner and gas station; it’s another half a mile to reach any other buildings or houses in the town. It’s tucked back from the road with its own car lot, surrounded by thickets of trees, a small, sprawling mass of long, single storey buildings jutting out like spider’s legs from the main office and reception. It has a couple of vending machines, an ice machine that Stiles wouldn’t ever dare actually get ice _from_ given the hygiene of the place, and each row of rooms feels weirdly disconnected from the others. Despite there being around fifty rooms, only a handful seem occupied at any one time; mostly, it’s housed by truckers stopping for the night. 

Stiles’s own room is right at the end of one of the buildings. The edge almost touches the fringe of trees. The view from the door is of the back corner of the car lot, which is usually vacant, and beyond that, only darkness; the only street lamp is right by the entrance to the car lot, splashing a pool of grubby yellow light onto the smallest patch of concrete imaginable. Behind his room is more trees. The only other occupant on this row is a young man who comes and goes each night, using the room six doors down from Stiles’s. 

It’s isolated. The place is grimy, the windows covered in a thin film of dust, and the whole place just feels greasy and dirty. It’s exactly the kind of place Stiles would imagine as a setting for a horror movie.

It’s exactly the kind of place where no one asks questions.

His room is small and kind of stuffy, since the air con seems perpetually broken and the narrow window next to the door only opens about an inch. The walls are covered with tacky dark wood panels that clash with the paisley curtains and scratchy green carpet. It has a single bed made of cheap wood with an even cheaper mattress; the springs are broken and uncomfortable, and he’d stripped off the itchy, stained sheets the second he’d walked into the place. 

There’s a small table next to the bed with a lamp, a rack nailed onto the wall for hanging clothes, an overstuffed armchair tucked into one corner, and an old, chunky TV suspended in the other. A tiny desk with a wooden stool is nestled against the wall near the bathroom door. A lamp with no shade and a Bible rests on top of the chipboard surface. 

The bathroom is smaller than a closet, with a grimy shower-tub combo, a stained toilet, and a tiny sink. A bare light bulb illuminates the space; there’s a narrow window right at the top of the wall, covered with a bug screen. 

It’s October, so the weather isn’t as hot; it’s settled into a more comfortable level of dry warmth. He’s got a night shift at the diner, so after going for a run and doing his usual work out, he takes a shower to wash away the sticky sweat clinging to his skin. He dresses quickly, pulling on his walking boots instead of his new sandals; he tucks a small knife into the strap he’d sewn into one of them. 

He keeps his money on him, zipped securely in the pockets of his cargo shorts; he doesn’t trust the owner of this place as far as he can throw him. He does leave his backpack behind, since there’s nothing of value inside it. He places it on top of the desk, leaned up against the wall, and drains the rest of the water in his bottle before setting it down.  
Carefully, he nudges the bottle until it’s resting an inch from the corner of the desk, placed halfway between the edge and the backpack, then turns it until the logo runs parallel to the lamp, facing due North. Then, slipping his cap into place, he steps out into the warm evening, locking up behind him. 

The walk isn’t too bad. At this hour, there isn’t a whole lot of traffic on the road, just the occasional truck or coach trundling past, kicking dust up into the air. He keeps up a steady pace, ignoring the occasional glare of headlights splashing across his face when someone drives past, until he reaches the diner. He enters through the back door that leads straight into the kitchen.

Joe and Lori’s sons are already there. Earl, the oldest brother, a six foot three, beefy former high school quarterback with ruddy cheeks, ginger bristles on his jaw and an angel tattoo on his bicep, is stood at the grill, flipping a couple of burgers. The youngest, Ray, a much shorter but equally beefy guy with a stained muscle shirt and tobacco constantly gummed between his teeth, glances up at Stiles, offering a single nod as he shoves a tray of chicken wings into the oven.

Stiles hangs his cap up on one of the hooks by the back door and tugs an apron on over his shirt before moving to his station. Earl’s radio is set up on one of the shelves, blasting mostly static with the occasional tinny stream of music, and Stiles can hear Lori out the front, greeting a customer in her cheerful, sunnier-than-sunshine voice. 

He settles into a rhythm. The cooking is pretty simple and easy enough; mostly, it involves a whole lot of frying. The kitchen is thick with heat and the stench of grease and hot cooking oil; Stiles’s neck soon becomes damp with sweat and the constant repetition of dunking fries or flipping fried chicken is almost enough to turn him off junk food for life.

The diner is only really busy on weekends, when local teens take over the booths and small car lot, but there’s a steady enough trickle of orders coming through that keeps Stiles busy. Earl and Ray don’t talk much – they seem to communicate with looks alone – and that suits Stiles fine, but they seem friendly enough, just in a quieter way than their parents. 

The door flips open and Lori bustles into the kitchen, her peroxide curls bouncing slightly. Unlike her husband, who’s near enough six and a half feet, she’s tiny, just the wrong side of five foot. Also unlike her husband, who’s built like a line backer, she’s petite and soft, with a face lined with age and bright blue eyes. She’s wearing a pink apron over her dress and wedge sandals and she tugs her notepad out of the pocket, ripping off a page to add to the row of orders clipped near Earl’s grill.

“Got an order for a double cheeseburger, no tomato,” she rattles off. “Extra fries, hold the slaw.”

Stiles glances towards the door. She’d left it open a little, with enough of a gap to see a sliver of the diner. There’s a man sat on one of the stools at the counter. He’s hunched slightly, thick arms folded on the formica surface, and he looks just like any other trucker that passes through the place, wearing a grey shirt with sweat circles under the pits and collar, and a cap. It’s tugged low, the visor leaving his face in shadows; tufts of dark brown hair poke out from underneath it.

He’s pale, tall and lean, a quiet strength evident in his body, in the way he holds himself. His head tips slightly to the right; Stiles can’t see his eyes, but he knows the man is glancing at him. 

Stiles looks away, down at the fryer as he dips a basket full of fries into the bubbling oil, but he keeps watch from the corner of his eye. 

Thirty two seconds later, the man’s head tips ever so slightly to the right again.

“What about him?” Stiles asks without looking up. “The dude at the counter?”

“Who, hon?” Lori glances back through the door. “Oh, him? He just asked for a coffee.”

“Black, no sugar?” he guesses.

“You got it,” she replies. “He does look like a black coffee kinda guy, huh?”

“Yeah. He does.”

She smiles and heads back out, leaving the door ajar again. Joe fixes the guy his coffee, setting it on the counter. A pale strip of skin lines the man’s wrist; a break in his tan where a watch used to be. His cap is emblazoned with the Dallas Cowboys logo. 

There’s a fine dusting of golden blond hair on his forearms. 

Stiles keeps his attention on the fries. When they’re done, he drains and seasons them, passing them to Ray to plate up. The rest of his shift passes quietly. The man leaves after two cups of coffee, ostensibly to return to his truck, fuel up and carry on, or drive up to the motel to stop for the night. Stiles clocks off at midnight; Joe leaves cash on the side for him. Stiles palms it, tucking it away securely in his pocket, and hangs his apron back up. 

He grabs the trash on his way out, going out through the back kitchen door. He nudges it shut behind him, plunging the area at the back of the diner into darkness. Night has crept in properly and the air is a lot cooler; a gentle breeze ghosts over his bare arms as he makes his way to the beaten up dumpster at the corner. He tosses the trash inside and closes the lid with a metallic _clang_.

Usually, he goes straight back to the motel after a shift. Now, however, he circles the diner, stepping out into the light provided by a series of streetlamps lined like soldiers along the sidewalk. Across the road, the gas station is lit up, almost painfully bright in the darkness. The only truck parked up near it is one Stiles knows belongs to a guy who passes through regularly; he recognizes the distinct blue and yellow paintjob. 

There’s a car parked on the gas station forecourt. A black Honda Accord. 

Florida plates.

Stiles crosses the road and pushes open the door to the gas station with a quiet jingle.

He knows he’s being followed.

It’s small inside, kinda dusty and crammed with shelves. A small coffee station is tucked into the corner opposite the counter. The guy at the till barely looks older than twenty, clearly stoned out of his mind as he slouches over the counter and dicks around on his phone, gum smacking loudly between his teeth. He doesn’t spare Stiles a glance as the door clatters shut behind him.

The linoleum squeaks under the soles of Stiles’s boots. The air con is working, at least, spilling cool air over Stiles’s skin, but it kicks up the dust motes in the air into a frenzy. He cuts down one of the aisles until he reaches the row of freezers at the back of the store. They hum quietly, condensation creeping down the doors. 

Stiles watches the reflection in the glass as the door behind him opens. 

The trucker from the diner steps inside.

He whistles casually, spinning a set of keys around his finger as he starts to browse one of the shelves. Stiles opens the freezer, grabs a tub of ice cream, and makes his way to the front. 

There’s a small, circular mirror hung up behind the counter, tucked in the corner next to shelves of cigarettes and booze. It offers the guy at the till a view of the whole shop from his position at the till. It also allows Stiles to see behind him as the stoned kid scans the items.

The trucker doesn’t look at Stiles. His cap is still dipped low; his hair is cut short at the back, exposing pale strips of skin on his neck where it naturally creases. His jeans are grubby, stained with oil. His boots are brand new.

Stiles slaps a couple of bills on the counter, takes the ice cream, and leaves the station. 

It’s a shame he won’t get to thank Lori and Joe, or say goodbye.

He doesn’t glance over his shoulder as he walks away. He knows he’s being watched from inside the gas station; the guy will wait until Stiles is a certain distance away before following. It gives Stiles the opportunity to discreetly slide his knife from his boot as he passes out of sight behind a pump. He approaches the car and neatly slashes the sidewall on two tires.

The vehicle is parked away from the lights, so he’s not visible as he does it, and he walks away less than a minute later, knife tucked away again. He doesn’t look back and he doesn’t speed up his pace, not wanting to alert the guy that he’s been made. By the time he gets in his car to follow Stiles, the tires will be deflated enough that he won’t be going anywhere. 

Only when he’s a certain distance away from the gas station does he walk faster. The sooner he gets back to the motel to collect his backpack and leaves town, the better. He has no idea who sent the guy posing as a trucker, but he clearly isn’t SHIELD; SHIELD would train their agents a hell of a lot better. Whatever the guy’s purpose, Stiles needs to ghost again. 

When he reaches the motel, he pauses at the door to his room, checking the lock and seal, but it isn’t noticeably tampered with. He digs his key out of his pocket and unlocks the door, stepping inside; he clicks on the main light as he nudges the door shut behind him with his foot. 

He scans the room quickly. The bathroom door is slightly ajar, exactly as he left it. The curtains are still shut, the barest sliver of a gap left in the centre. Stiles’s backpack is still on top of the desk, slouched against the wall.

The logo on the bottle is facing West.

Adrenaline spikes through Stiles. Quietly, he adjusts the key in his hand until it’s wedged between his fingers, teeth pointing outwards like a weapon. He has the knife in his boot, but reaching for it would draw attention to the fact that he knows he’s not alone. 

The intruder isn’t in this room. The only hiding place is under the bed and only an idiot would try and hide there; it’s a shit place for both offence and defence, with zero room for manoeuvrability. The only other place is the bathroom. Stiles keeps close to the wall without making it obvious, out of range of a gun – unless the person decides to just fire through the thin bathroom door and be done with it.

Stiles’s heart pounds in his chest. He’s in a bad position here; he has no idea what the person wants or what they could be armed with, but a gun is pretty likely. He has a knife, a key, and a tub full of melting ice cream. 

He reaches the stretch of wall between the desk and the bathroom door and presses his back against it. Slowly, he creeps his fingertips along the wall until they touch the door; with a gentle push, he nudges the door open an inch.

Instantly, three shots ring out; the pops are quiet, reduced by a suppressor, aimed at the other side of the door, and they punch through the wall opposite. Stiles pushes forward, ducking down low to the ground as he shoves through the door, and another shot goes off, but the guy is caught off guard, aiming way over Stiles’s head. 

Stiles tosses the key to the side so he can grab the gun and twist, rotating the man’s wrist outwards, breaking his grip on it. He starts to tug, but the guy recovers, slamming his knee up into Stiles’s thigh; the flash of pain and slight give in his leg distracts him enough that, instead of getting a proper hold on the gun, he lets go, and it clatters to the floor. Stiles quickly kicks it away before the assassin can reach for it again. 

He doesn’t see where the hell the guy even gets a knife _from_ , but it’s slicing through the air towards him a second later. He lifts the tub of ice cream in front of him, feels the impact of the blade as it slams into the carton and the cold drip of half melted dairy goodness as it spills out from the puncture, and he yanks on the tub, pulling the knife clean out of the assassin’s hand. A sharp kick knocks the carton out of Stiles’s grip and he rocks back quickly, out of range of the punch flying towards his face.

It’s been months since he’s fought someone who’s actually trained, someone strong and skilled, and even his daily workouts haven’t been enough to stop him from getting a little bit rusty. It shows when he gets distracted blocking a punch, and doesn’t see the knee until it’s too late. It drives into his side and the breath explodes out of him, pain flaring in his ribs. Automatically, his body hunches forward, and a fist collides with his jaw. Copper fills his mouth, lip stinging from where it’s split, and he staggers back into the wall. 

He manages to block the grip the guy tries to get him in and they grapple for a second, exchanging short, sharp body blows as they tumble around inside the tiny, cramped space, unable to get the room to pull off anything more than sloppy clinches and desperate punches. Stiles ends up bent back over the sink and the assassin tries to lift him to slam him down; he manages to lock his legs around the man’s throat and executes a flip that he thinks Natasha would be proud of, except in the tight space, it brings them _both_ down, toppling into the bath tub, ripping the shower curtain down with them. The corner of the tub digs painfully into Stiles’s hip and he grunts, arm bent awkwardly as they land in a tangle of limbs. The shower curtain settles on top of them.

Breathless, Stiles shoves himself up enough to grab the curtain, twisting it into a tight rope before slinging it quickly over the assassin’s neck. Before he can recover, Stiles pulls tight, pushing up onto his feet for better leverage as he holds on. The guy scrabbles at his neck, gasping for air, and Stiles holds it despite the strain in his muscles, keeps pulling until the man’s strength starts to drain out of him. Only then does he let go, allowing him to pull in some much needed oxygen as he slumps over in the tub. Stiles grabs a fistful of his shirt and rolls him over.

“Who sent you?” 

The face beneath him is sweaty and red, grey eyes full of anger. His lip curls up slightly as he spits, “Hail Hydra.”

“Informative. Thanks. Who – oh, whoa, fuck you, no you don’t.” 

The man is starting to bite down, but Stiles shoves his fingers into his mouth, wincing as teeth dig into them. He pries his jaw open and scrabbles around until he finds what he’s looking for: a hollow tooth. Probably containing a cyanide capsule. It’s Hydra’s MO, after all. 

Without releasing his grip on the man’s jaw, Stiles reaches down with his other hand to slide his knife free from his boot.

“This is gonna hurt, buddy. Sorry about that.” He pauses, considers, then clarifies, “Actually, I’m really not. Fuck Hydra.”

It’s not as easy as Stiles would like, since he’s not a dentist and there’s not much room to manoeuvre his knife while simultaneously preventing the guy from accessing the cyanide capsule, but he manages to jiggle the blade around, prying the hollow tooth free. The amount of blood doesn’t help, either, and the guy is giving short, gasping screams that are muffled by Stiles’s hand, his teeth sinking painfully into Stiles’s fingers. Finally, when it’s loose, Stiles pulls free, making a face at the blood and saliva clinging to his skin.

“That was a lot gorier than I expected,” he admits. “Holy shit.”

The assassin slumps back with a moan of pain, glaring balefully up at Stiles. He doesn’t say anything, just tips his head so he can spit a mouthful of blood out into the bottom of the tub. Stiles wrinkles his nose and tosses the tooth into the sink with a clatter. He wipes his hand and knife clean on the guy’s shirt, then closes the toilet lid and sits down on top of it.

“So, Hydra, huh?” he says. “Why send you after me? I’m -.”

He pauses, going silent as fresh adrenaline scrapes down his spine. He’s already moving when the door to the room creaks open, the trucker from the gas station stepping inside; Stiles grabs the assassin’s hair, slams his face into the edge of the tub to knock him out cold, and then rolls, coming up with the discarded gun in his hands. He fires off a single shot. It hits the guy in the meat of his thigh – avoiding arteries and bone – and he goes down with a shout, his own gun falling to the floor.

Stiles quickly crosses the room, shoving two fingers in the guy’s mouth before he can bite down on his capsule. He removes the hollow tooth. He picks up the gun, removing the magazine, and tosses it onto the bed. Thanks to the suppressor and the emptiness of the motel, he doesn’t think anyone will come investigating, but he’s not willing to hang around for too long. 

Carefully, he drags the trucker into the bathroom. Three people in the cramped space isn’t ideal, but Stiles manages to heave the man into the tub alongside the other assassin. He uses his knife to cut a strip of material off the trucker’s shirt and creates a makeshift tourniquet with it, ignoring the pained sounds as he fixes it around the man’s thigh.

“You’re not gonna bleed out, relax,” he says. 

He cuts up the shower curtain and uses it to tie them both to the metal rail, securing them in the room. Then he sits back on the toilet seat, wipes away the blood dribbling down his chin, and rests his forearms on his knees, knife dangling from his fingers as he looks at them. The first guy is still out cold, but the man disguised as a trucker is holding on despite the pain, staring at Stiles with pure, vitriolic anger on his face.

“So,” Stiles says. “Let’s talk. Who sent you? I know it was Hydra, but who specifically? And _why_?”

His lips press together. He doesn’t say a single word. Stiles sighs, rubbing slightly at his forehead; his fingertips leave a smear of blood behind on his skin and he pulls a face. Gross. 

“Look. I get it. You’re professionals. You’re not gonna talk. You’re big tough guys, blah, blah, blah. I could be super cliché here and say we can do this the easy way or the hard way, but.” He shrugs slightly. “That’s just a little too cheesy for me. So. Talk. Please?”

Trucker dude spits out a mouthful of blood. It splatters on the floor between him and Stiles. “You haven’t got the stones to kill me, kid.”

“Kill you – what? Why would I kill you? That’s…pretty counterproductive to the whole wanting you to talk thing. Besides, why would you assume I haven’t got the stones for it? I’ve killed people.” 

“Not like this. Not tied up and at your mercy. You think we didn’t do our research on you first? You’re not the type for senseless violence.”

Stiles nods slightly, running his hand across his jaw. “Maybe,” he agrees. “But here’s the thing. I don’t know _what_ I am anymore. I’m certainly not the person I used to be. So do you really want to test that? See if maybe now I am the kind of person to do something like that? ‘Cause I gotta say, I’m a little curious to find out myself.” He leans forward, catching and holding the assassin’s gaze. “Besides, there are plenty of ways I could _not kill_ you. That wound must be pretty sore. Still bleeding, huh? I could cauterize it for you. No anaesthetic, of course, but I’d be doing you a favor -.”

“Deucalion.”

“Oh. Wow. You broke super easy. Okay – _oh_.” Stiles goes still. “Deucalion.”

The Hydra agent who brainwashed Kali and others, who caused everything that happened to Julia to send her spiralling down that dark path. The one who’s to blame for it all. For Kali, for Julia, for Stiles, for all of the innocent people who were killed or hurt. Because of one man, working for one organization. 

“Why?” he demands.

“You could be a problem. Deucalion doesn’t like problems.”

Stiles chews that over for a moment. Deucalion will know now about Julia, will have put two and two together to realize she’s the same woman he ordered one of his brainwashed agents to kill. Stiles broke free of the control, killed Julia, and is a loose cannon now; he’s missing, he’s an _unknown_ , and of course anyone smart would consider the possibility that Stiles would now be coming for Deucalion. 

So he’s tried to take Stiles out first.

“Okay,” he murmurs, and gets to his feet. “I’m gonna call an ambulance. And the cops. I’m guessing you’ll want to happily hand yourselves in as Hydra, considering what Hydra will do to you if they discover that you not only failed, but you’ve been identified by the authorities. So, really, I’m doing you a favor. Kinda hope you rot in jail, though.”

He quickly washes the blood off his face and changes shirts, shoving the stained one in the trash. There’s not much point trying to hide the fact that he was here; his fingerprints and DNA are all over the goddamn room now. He just has to make sure he’s gone by the time the cops arrive and hope that the reward of bringing in two Hydra assassins is worth not bothering trying to track Stiles down. 

He’s bruised, lip split, and he’s exhausted. And he’s _hungry_. He’d really wanted that ice cream. He casts a forlorn glance at the melted puddle on the floor and sighs before checking the two men are tightly secured in the tub. Once he’s sure they won’t be going anywhere, he uses the room’s phone to dial out, calling for an ambulance and the police.

Then he grabs his backpack, tosses the motel key onto the bed, and steps outside. By the time sirens pierce the night, howling closer and closer to the building, Stiles is long gone, disappearing into the darkness. 

He has work to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not long now, I promise! <3


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the delay in this chapter; a lot has been going on lately, including a 8 day long migraine, so writing has been slow. I'm away this weekend, so I won't be getting any writing done until Sunday afternoon at the earliest, but I'll try and get the next chapter up quicker. Again, super sorry for the delay, thank you for sticking with this fic! <3
> 
> Warnings in this chapter for: violence, blood, explosion, knives, implied threat of torture (though there's no intention of carrying it out), Hydra, body horror, falls, injuries, mention of brainwashing, mention of imprisonment and torture.

LA is warm, sunshine spilling over the table in front of Stiles; it ripples across the turquoise tiles until they shimmer like an ocean.

He thinks about New York and how, at this time of year, the leaves will be shifting to orange and brown, the city becoming a patchwork of gold and red and lush, dark green, Fall kissing the city like an old friend. 

He misses it.

But the LA weather is a good excuse to still wear a cap and sunglasses, at least. He leans back in his chair, the wood creaking slightly as he shifts his weight, and takes a sip of iced coffee, listens to the rattle of ice cubes inside the glass.

He isn’t making any more effort to be covert than his usual methods of being discreet. He isn’t being obvious, either, isn’t showing his face to any cameras or going to crowded places where he might be recognized, even though he had, briefly, been tempted. After all, he is trying to lure Deucalion out.

But Deucalion already found him once, when Stiles had been hiding out in bumfuck nowhere, doing his damn best to keep his head low and avoid recognition. He’s fooled _Tony Stark’s_ systems, so how the hell Deucalion managed to find him, he has no idea, but he really doesn’t like it. It’s probable Deucalion will be able to find him again, but if Stiles starts being obvious, he’ll sense the trap.

The best option is to keep acting the way he has been. He’s sure Deucalion will try again, especially after what happened in Arizona. If he saw Stiles as a threat before, his wariness of Stiles will have gone right up now.

For the past week, he’s been following the news stories on the two men found tied up in an Arizona motel room. Unsurprisingly, SHIELD quickly took over from the local cops, and Coulson issued a statement that the two men were Hydra assassins connected to several high profile killings, including the innocent 16 year old son of a US Senator a few years ago, and that they’d been taken down by an undercover SHIELD agent. He’s kept Stiles’s name out of it.

That doesn’t stop public speculation, of course. He’s been reading the theories being thrown around online, people connecting the dots and implicating Stiles as the one to take them down. But, surprisingly, very few people are condemning him for his actions. Instead, they’re _praising_ him, viewing him as a hero, taking down two dangerous, evil Hydra assassins, making sure they’ll face justice. They’re comparing his actions in Arizona to what he did in Bristol, theorizing that he’s become some kind of vigilante. 

Only a small amount of die-hard anti-SHIELD followers, like Rupert Donlan, are trying to call for Stiles to be taken in, calling him dangerous, calling him a threat, but those voices are being drowned out by the overall majority.

He doesn’t know what to make of it, but reading the positive comments makes ash scorch his throat, exhausted anger churn in his belly. Being likened to any kind of hero burns.  
The Avengers haven’t issued a comment on the incident. Stiles knows that what happened is a turning point, tumbling them all over a knife edge; they’ll be looking for him properly now. He’s been trying to keep off their radar, but he can’t guarantee that he’ll be able to keep tricking JARVIS’s systems now that Tony will be ready for it. Besides, if Deucalion found him, it stands to reason that SHIELD or the Avengers will be able to as well.

He doesn’t know if they’ll come for him, but he can’t face them. He’s not running anymore, yet he can’t go back, either. He has work to do, starting with making sure Deucalion isn’t a threat anymore.

Work that will finish when he destroys as much of Hydra as he can.

Draining the rest of his coffee, Stiles leaves change on the table and gets to his feet, walking away from the café’s patio. He’s been in LA for a couple of days, following his usual patterns; he’d taken some quick cash in hand work to build up his funds yesterday and spent today exploring the city on foot, keeping up the pretence that he’s resuming his efforts to stay low and off the radar. The second he does something out of the norm, Deucalion will know he’s trying to lure him out, and he only has one shot at this. 

When dusk slips over the city, sliding rosy fingers across the sky, he makes his way back to his motel. He’d chosen a room at the back of the building at the end of a row, away from the other guests to minimize the threat to civilians. It’s not as seedy as the one in Arizona, but it’s cheap, similar to the other places he’s chosen to stay in during his travels. He slips into his room and shuts the door before sliding the curtains closed. 

He flicks on the light and checks the cameras he’d set up earlier. There’s a reason he’d chosen LA: he knows a few people here, criminals who got arrested in Beacon Hills once or twice and had seemed useful enough for Stiles to strike up a friendship with back then. The kinds of friends who had taught him to forge IDs, how to pick locks or hotwire a car; the kinds of friends who are happy to sell him the kind of equipment he’s using now.

The cameras are small and discreet, concealed perfectly without limiting their view of the room. The wireless monitor they’re connected to is SHIELD grade and untraceable. Stiles grabs it and steps into the bathroom, opening the window. It’s small, the frame scraping painfully against his hips as he squeezes through it, landing on the ground outside. He shuts the window again. 

The back of the building is a small concrete area, cut off from the public car lot with a chain link fence topped with barbed wire. There’s a couple of dumpsters, a little employee patio covered in cigarette butts, and four staff vehicles parked in the space. But no CCTV. 

One of the employee vehicles is a squat navy van with some pretty ugly artwork splashed across the side. With a homemade slim jim – fashioned from a wire coat hanger stolen from the motel room – he makes quick work of breaking into the passenger side door without making a sound. He climbs in, quietly closes the door, and clambers over the front bench to access the space in the back of the van. Kicking aside a bong, a pile of blankets with questionable hygiene, and some empty takeout cartons, he sits down, leaning his back against the wall. He switches on the monitor, plugs in the earphones so he can listen in via the bugs he planted, and settles back to wait.

Four hours tick by; it’s close to two in the morning before movement shows on the cameras. A shadow passing by the window, silhouette lit up through the curtain by the vibrant lights lining the front of the motel. Stiles sits forward, swiping to view the camera aimed directly at the door. 

Whoever it is, they’re good; the door opens less than thirty seconds later, the break in quick and silent. A man slips inside, closing the door behind him. He’s tall, well built, dressed in dark, casual clothes, a cap on his head. His face is turned away from the camera, but Stiles can see the line of his jaw, the rough, cleanly shaven skin. 

The man does a sweep of the main room and the small bathroom before lifting a hand to his ear, speaking into a comms unit. The bugs pick up his voice, crackling over Stiles’s headphones.

“No sign in the room. You sure he came back here?” A pause, then, “You got anything in the car lot?”

More than one, but Stiles is willing to bet the team’s size is less than five; if Deucalion is smart, which Stiles suspects he very much _is_ , he won’t want to draw too much attention to what’s going on. He’ll want it to be done quickly and efficiently, with minimal civilian attention or collateral damage, to ensure Hydra avoids further exposure. 

Still. Less than five trained men isn’t ideal. He needs to avoid them as much as possible while picking out just one to target. After all, he just wants to get intel on Deucalion; he only needs one assassin for that. 

“I’ll check around back,” the man says, leaving the room just as quietly as he’d entered it.

Stiles tucks the monitor and headphones into his backpack and climbs out of the van. He props the backpack up against one of the wheels, out of sight, and quickly crosses the small area, moving towards the corner of the building nearest to the entrance gate. He presses his back against the brick wall, sliding a long, thin silver chain out of his pocket. He wraps one end around his hand as he waits, listening intently.

The guy is good; _silent_ , not even the barest scrape of footsteps to give him away, but the squeak of the rusted gate is inevitable. The second he starts to round the corner, Stiles is on him, kicking out the back of his knee; he crumples.

Before he can make a sound, the chain is around his neck, and Stiles pulls taut. He snatches the comms unit out of the man’s ear, smashing it under his foot, and releases the chain to shove the guy face first into the wall. He grunts, blood bursting from his broken nose, and slumps slightly, gasping for breath. 

Stiles tucks the chain away and grabs the man’s hoodie, using it to drag him towards the van. The fucker’s _heavy_ , but he’s still too shaken from being strangled and having his nose wrecked to struggle, which makes it easier. Once they’re tucked behind the van, Stiles props him up against the back wheel arch and crouches opposite him, slipping a knife from his boot. He has no intention of using it – torture really _isn’t_ his thing – but he doesn’t want the guy to get any ideas about trying to fight, either. He hasn’t got the time for it.

“So,” he says. “I’m pretty sure you know how this goes. Tell me everything you know about your employer.”

The man glares at him. “Fuck you.”

“Not my type,” Stiles replies cheerfully. “So. Deucalion. Spill.”

“I’m not alone.”

He tilts his head slightly. “I know.” He pauses just long enough for the man to see how not concerned Stiles is before tugging a little control out of his pocket. He glances at it, counting down, “And…three…two…” 

He presses the button.

Distantly, there’s a rumble, the unmistakeable sound of an explosion, and the man’s dark eyes widen, cutting to the dark sky above them as he searches for the source. Stiles taps his chin firmly, drawing his attention back to his face.

“Dunno if you saw it while scouting around,” he says. “But at the end of this block, there’s an abandoned store. All boarded up, fenced off parking lot, nice and empty. No civilian casualties. So, if an explosive device was to go off in there, there’s no risk of damage. But I figure it’s enough to keep your buddies busy…or scare them off before the authorities start looking around. Either way, no one’s gonna be looking for you. It’s just you and me. So, I’d suggest you start talking.”

He tries to speak, but blood is spilling into his mouth, muffling his words. Stiles rolls his eyes and roughly shoves his head forward so the blood won’t slip into his throat and choke him, using the guy’s sweatshirt to stem the flow. He holds it there for several minutes before peeling the fabric away slightly.

“Better?”

A pause, then a slight nod. Stiles lets go completely, wiping his hands on the guy’s jeans, because _gross_. Blood’s crusting on his face, but his nose has stopped actively bleeding, at least, and though his teeth are stained red, he’s not being muffled anymore.

“I don’t know anything.”

“Bullshit,” Stiles replies.

He stays silent, jaw clenched, and Stiles sighs, shaking his head slightly. He sits back on his ass, knees bended slightly in front of him as he holds the guy’s gaze.

“Two cameras at the front of the motel,” he says. “One in front of the reception, one overlooking the car lot. All I have to do is drag you close to one, point that pretty little face of yours right into the camera’s view, and you’re done.”

He scoffs. “Because of SHIELD? You think they frighten me?”

“No. But I bet Hydra really fucking does. Because once you’re seen with me, SHIELD will know you’re Hydra. Once your face has been seen, you’re over. You’ll be a liability and Hydra _really_ don’t like those, do they? What happens if they catch up to you before SHIELD, huh? I bet it isn’t pretty.”

For a long moment, the guy is silent, eyes cold and flashing with anger as he chews over his options, but he knows Stiles is right. Resigned, he leans his head back against the van.

“What are you offering?”

“I’ll make sure SHIELD get here first. You have the chance to spend your life in a SHIELD jail. Or you can stay silent and I’ll walk away. Let Hydra find you and do whatever it is they do to keep you silent. Your choice.”

“I don’t know much,” he says flatly. “I don’t know his location, or anything about him. _No one_ does. The guy is a ghost, okay? Only the guys at the top know him, and the people who are closest to him, the ones who carry out his orders. He put out the hit on you, but it wasn’t him who gave me the instructions. It was one of his team. He approached me with the order.”

“Name.”

“Aidan Steiner.”

Stiles nods. “Do you have a location?”

“He’s supposed to be in Warren, Michigan, carrying out an operation there. That’s all I know.” 

“What does he look like?”

“5’10, white, young; he’s probably the same age as you. I don’t know how he got so high up in the ranks to be a part of Deucalion’s team.”

Stiles thinks about Kali and smiles grimly. “I do. Hair color, eye color? C’mon, man. This deal only works if you talk.”

“Brown hair, brown eyes, heavy jawline. He has a twin brother, but I’ve never met him. He has a scar on his throat. Small, almost circular.” 

Stiles pats him on the cheek and gets to his feet. “Thanks, pal.”

“Wait, where are you going? What about the deal?” The guy sits up, gaze darting to his left before he looks back at Stiles. “How can you guarantee SHIELD will get here first?”

“Because they’ve been here this whole time. Well, an affiliate of theirs, anyway. Don’t tell him what you told me.”

“They’re gonna lock me up -.”

“And I know exactly _where_ ,” Stiles cuts him off. “So I know exactly what to tell Hydra about where you’re being stashed away if you fuck me over. Keep Aiden Steiner between us, got it?”

A pause, then a small, sharp nod. “Asshole,” the guy mutters.

“Yeah, I’ve heard that before.”

Stiles looks up, at the figure barely visible on the roof of a building halfway down the block, silhouetted by the moon. When Stiles faces him, he straightens from his crouch, but doesn’t try to hide or move away from Stiles’s line of sight. Clint just watches, waiting, silently offering Stiles the chance he’d been hoping for.

So he takes it. 

He walks away.

***

Pictures of Clint are splashed all over the news.

He and SHIELD are credited for bringing in the Hydra assassin Stiles cut a deal with and had managed to capture the rest of the team sent to kill him. To his relief, neither Clint or Coulson mention Stiles’s involvement at all. It keeps Deucalion from catching on to Stiles’s plan, and it keeps the public from seeing him as some kind of vigilante, bringing Hydra killers to justice. Stiles doesn’t want people talking about him; he wants to keep his head low while he works on bringing Deucalion down. If people start paying attention to him, start _looking_ for him, following news reports of his whereabouts, it’ll make his task infinitely harder.

He doesn’t know if the man Stiles spoke to has told Clint or Coulson about Aiden Steiner. If he has, there’s a good chance SHIELD will be in Michigan too. He doesn’t think Clint will show; he left Stiles to it in LA, watched but didn’t interfere, and let him leave again, unfollowed. But if Clint told anyone else on the team, they might try and find him in Michigan, and he can’t afford their involvement. This is something he _needs_ to do. 

He’s done self-wallowing. The apathy has burned itself out. The urge to keep running has disappeared. Instead, he’s got a mission, and it fills him with grim determination.

Deucalion caused everything that happened. He brainwashed Kali, which lead to her death. His actions, his _orders_ , sent Julia on her dark path; it’s because of him and everything he did that Julia took Stiles, and took others, and hurt so many people. It’s because of him that Stiles was ruined. And Stiles would have left him be; he hadn’t even thought about him, hadn’t even _considered_ the idea of revenge. Except he decided Stiles needs to be killed.

So Stiles will make sure to bring him down first. It’s kill or be killed, and he’s always been good at survival. Even during the times he doesn’t think he deserves it.

If SHIELD, or anyone from the team, if _Steve_ does turn up, he doesn’t know what he will do. But it’s worth the risk. Despite the uncertainty, there’s no chance he’s not going to go to Michigan. He has a lead.

He’ll be damned if he doesn’t follow it.

***

Aiden Steiner looks like a typical douchebag.

He’s built like a gym rat and shows off his muscles with a tight black Henley that’s a couple of sizes too small, clinging to his biceps and stomach. There’s a leather jacket slung over the back of his bar stool and his jeans look expensive, distressed in a fashionable way that adds a couple of zeroes to the price tag. He’s wearing designer sneakers, clean and dazzling white, and there’s a Hublot Classic Fusion on his wrist, gleaming under the bar’s lights.

His dark hair is cropped short, slightly longer at the top, and he’s clean shaven, with a strong jaw on an otherwise babyish face. He looks so _young_.

He doesn’t look like a high ranking Hydra agent.

Stiles has no idea if his suspicion is correct. For all he knows, Aiden Steiner really is a Hydra supporting asshole, violent, calculated and ass-licking enough to make his way up the ranks to join Deucalion’s team. But Stiles can’t shake the niggling doubt, remembering Kali and what she’d told Julia. If Deucalion is as reclusive as his reputation claims him to be, then it makes sense that his team, the ones closest to him, are all brainwashed; it makes it much easier to control them, and it’s a lot less likely that any of them will betray him. 

If there’s a chance that Aiden _is_ brainwashed, just like Kali had been, then as much as Stiles needs to get information from him, his equal priority is helping. The memory of Julia’s control is a constant, suffocating ghost in Stiles’s chest; he can’t just walk away from someone experiencing the same thing. If Aiden is brainwashed, Stiles needs to figure out how to get him to SHIELD without giving away his game plan. 

He watches as Aiden flags down the bartender, ordering another beer. Stiles isn’t sure what his mission entails, but so far, he’s spent the day in his hotel room before heading to a grimy bar. Trailing him hasn’t really been interesting, but it’s provided some insight into the guy. He pulls standard anti-surveillance manoeuvres as a habit; he’d actually almost lost Stiles a couple of times. He doesn’t bother adjusting his gait or his posture, either. He walks like a fighter, like he knows he can handle himself if needs be, but, despite his flashy apparel and handsome appearance, he manages to avoid drawing too much attention. 

Stiles is willing to bet he’s well trained, which is unsettling considering Stiles’s task here, but he does have one advantage: Aiden has no idea that Stiles is shadowing him.   
He picks up his own bottle, draining the last gulp of beer. There’s a group of guys playing darts and he watches them for a few minutes, staying casual as Aiden flicks a glance around the bar; his gaze skims right over Stiles.

It takes another hour before someone approaches Aiden. A woman, tall with long blonde hair; she doesn’t sit next to him at the bar, just slides something on top of it before walking away again, without exchanging a single word. It’s a gold coin and Stiles watches as Aiden pockets it without glancing in the woman’s direction.

Payment for something. Whatever Aiden’s mission is, he’s clearly finished it. 

Ten minutes later, Aiden gets to his feet, slapping some money on the bar before shouldering his way through the crowds inside the building. Stiles waits a few seconds before following, keeping a safe distance as he squeezes his way through throngs of people. 

Outside, the air is cold, a sharp breeze in the air. The sky is clear enough to see stars, the moon suspended in a blanket of darkness, but there’s no frost, at least. Stiles tucks his hands into his pockets and glances to the right, just as Aiden pauses to look over his shoulder.

Their gazes meet.

_Shit_.

Instantly, Aiden breaks out into a run. Stiles follows, trying to catch up, but the dude is fucking _fast_ , and he knows the layout of the area a lot better than Stiles. He cuts so quickly into an alley that Stiles almost misses it, skidding at the last second to swerve in after him. Halfway down the narrow alley, Aiden jumps, catching hold of a half-lowered fire escape ladder, rattling it down. He climbs it quickly and, once he reaches the platform, starts to pull it up.

Stiles sprints towards it, but he’s too late; the ladder is way out of his reach and Aiden starts climbing the fire escape. He has to use a dumpster, jumping onto and then propelling off of it to grab hold of the edge of the fire escape. The metal is cold and damp against his bare hands, his fingers slipping slightly, but he manages to haul himself up, climbing over the railing to land securely on the platform. 

He starts climbing, making his way to the roof of the building. He does a side vault over the ledge, landing on his feet, and sees Aiden on the other side of the roof. Breaking out into a sprint, Stiles tries to catch up, but Aiden takes a running jump, disappearing. When Stiles reaches the edge, he sees Aiden land on the roof of the next building, several feet below. 

There’s no time to hesitate; Stiles takes the leap, landing in a shoulder roll before popping back to his feet, running after Aiden. He follows him from rooftop to rooftop, jumping and rolling, utilizing fire escapes and extensions, vaulting and flipping to make it without falling, but Aiden is fast, and no matter how hard Stiles pushes himself, he’s not gaining any ground, not when he’s being slowed down by having to jump over obstacles. 

Eventually, Aiden starts to slow, but Stiles spots the reason why a second later: there’s someone on the roof of the building opposite, making their way _towards_ them rather than running away. The person jumps, leaping cleanly over the gap between buildings, and slams right into Aiden with a painful sounding _thud_ of flesh and bone colliding with flesh and bone. The two of them roll across the ground – and something really fucking _weird_ happens.

For a second, Stiles swears it has to be a trick of the light. The two men are…merging together, almost. Their clothes rip and shred apart, pieces of fabric exploding over the ground. Flesh bleeds into flesh, one man disappearing into the other, until there’s only one left on the ground. He climbs to his feet, panting, broad shoulders heaving. 

He’s fucking _huge_. Well over six and a half feet, built like a brick shithouse, and really freaking ugly, mutated like a knock-off, tanned Hulk. A ragged seam cuts a path down the man’s chest where the two bodies moulded together to create…whatever the fuck Stiles is looking at now.

It’s then that Stiles remembers what the assassin had told him about Aiden. He has a _twin_.

“Oh, come _on_ ,” Stiles says breathlessly, backing up a step. “So…what? Inhuman? Evolutionary mistake? Science experiment? ‘Cause I gotta say, that shit is not _normal_.”

Aiden grins, sharp and shark like, as he approaches. “I know you.”

“Yeah, your boss is trying to kill me. I tried not to take it personally, but, you know. It kinda feels personal.”

For a moment, Aiden just stares down at Stiles, then says, “LA. You _did_ speak to the men Duke sent.”

“…Duke? You’re on nickname basis with the guy?”

He cracks his knuckles, then rolls his shoulders, popping his neck. Stiles has to admit, on a guy who looks like he could take on Thor, it’s pretty intimidating. He backs up another step. 

“So, uh…which are you? Aiden or your twin?”

“Both,” he replies. “I’m him and he is me.”

“That’s creepy. There’s such a thing as being _too_ close to your twin, you know.”

They smile, unperturbed. Stiles wonders how much of what he is looking at is Aiden and how much is the twin. Do they each control a side, like some weird Power Rangers deal? Can they communicate with each other, or do they literally share a brain, share a _mind_ , when they’re like this?

It’s fucking _weird_.

“I have a question,” Stiles says, backing up again. “’Cause I met a friend of yours. Kali?” 

They’d been following Stiles, matching him step for step, but they pause at that. “Kali. So, she went after Julia Baccari.”

“Yeah. Julia killed her.”

Rage, cold and vicious, slashes across the twins’ face. Meaty hands curl into fists, but they’re not swinging for Stiles. Not yet.

“She was brainwashed, right? Deucalion’s supposed to be a pro at that shit. So, what about you two?” 

They falter. It’s just for the briefest second, a slight hesitation, a twitch in response to his question, but it’s enough. Stiles has his answer.

He sighs. “Well, that makes things trickier. I don’t suppose you’ll tell me what I want to know?”

“Depends,” they reply evenly. “What do you want to know?”

“Are you for…? I mean, I want to know where Deucalion is. I, uh, I thought that was kind of obvious.”

The twins give a nod. They’re not approaching Stiles anymore, but threat is still a visible warning in their body. Stiles eyes their thick biceps, tries not to imagine how easy it would be for them to snap him like a twig. 

“You’ve got one chance,” they say. “Walk away. Otherwise, we’re gonna finish the job.” 

Stiles pauses. Definitely brainwashed, and yet…they’re not outright attacking Stiles, not yet. They’re giving him the opportunity to leave without them harming him. That doesn’t scream of someone brainwashed to the point of being violently loyal to Deucalion. He thinks about Kali, about how she managed to break free of the programming, and wonders if maybe she wasn’t the only one trying to snap out of it. Maybe there’s still a glimmer of the men the twins used to be, buried underneath layers of brainwashing, but still _there_. 

It makes this even harder. Because they could be innocent. Before Hydra got hold of them, before they were shredded apart and moulded into a weapon for Deucalion, they could have been normal, innocent people. And they’re offering Stiles a chance to walk away. He can’t throw that back in their faces by killing them.

He has too much blood on his hands. Maybe killing them would be adding just one more drop to the ocean staining his skin, but it would be one drop too many. He already feels too close to drowning. Maybe one day, he’ll tip over that edge, but he won’t be responsible for it. Not when he has a choice.

Stiles takes a deep breath and squares his shoulders. “Where’s Deucalion?”

They shake their head. “Your funeral, buddy.”

The first swing takes Stiles by surprise; they move so _fast_ , despite their hulking size, and, really, that should be unfair. He ducks at the last second, the blow clipping his shoulder, but it’s enough to knock him to the ground. He grits his teeth and rolls quickly, avoiding the foot slamming down towards his head; little cracks splinter along the roof from the impact. 

He rolls again to dodge a kick, sliding his knife from his boot as he twists up in a crouch. He lets it fly less than a second later, before they can see the gleam of metal in his hand, and the blade sinks right into their chest, embedding deeply in flesh and muscle. But with their supernatural bulk, it doesn’t go deep enough to do the kind of damage Stiles had hoped for. 

Blood trickles down their chest as they yank it out. The blade is slick with red and it stains their hands as they bend the metal as easily as if they were folding a straw, wrenching until the tip of the knife curls in on its self. Stiles stares as they toss it aside, feeling a little forlorn; for the past several months, that knife has been his one constant companion on his travels. He’s a little pissed to see it ruined so easily.

“Well, shit,” he says.

He used to train with people who could bench press a car on a regular basis, but they hadn’t actually been trying to _kill_ him. But he straightens to his feet, letting his mind clear of everything cluttering inside it, focuses only on survival, on winning the fight. 

He breaks out into a sprint, rushing them, but twists at the last second, jumping and propelling off a vent sticking out of the roof. He drives his knee into their face and flips, landing in a shoulder roll and popping back to his feet before facing them again. The force of his strike has knocked them back a couple of steps and blood dribbles from their split lip, but they’re not even dazed. 

An arm lashes out, fist glancing off Stiles’s ribs as he tries to dodge the punch, and the blow knocks him off his feet, sends him flying several feet before he slams onto the pitch, rolling slightly until he hits the ledge bordering the roof. Pain sears through his side and he lays there for a moment, stunned and wheezing for breath. Carefully, he slides a length of chain out of his pocket, wrapping one end around his fist.

The vibration of footsteps rattle his teeth. He waits until they’re close enough to aim a kick at his head before doing a kip-up to his feet, lashing out with the chain. It curls around their neck, tight enough to cut off their air, and Stiles turns, drops his weight, and _pulls_ on the chain, flipping the twins over his shoulder and onto the roof in front of him. The chain is still wrapped around their throat, squeezing the air out of them, and they scrabble at it. 

“Okay,” Stiles says, standing over them. “Do we have an understanding yet, or – oh, son of a _bitch_.”

The sound of metal creaking splits the cool night air as they manage to get a grip on the chain and squeeze, breaking it easily. They pull the length away from their skin and then flick it out; the end slams across the side of Stiles’s face, hard enough to daze him. Fire licks across his cheekbone and he feels the dampness of blood on his skin. 

Staggering, he manages to catch himself before he falls, blinking as he tries to gather himself back together. The rest of the chain is tossed carelessly aside, but now the twins look really fucking mad, bruising already blossoming around their throat. They shift their stance, ready to rush him, and Stiles makes a snap decision.

Admittedly, it’s probably a really fucking _stupid_ decision.

He sprints towards them. They don’t move, clearly not expecting him to manage much given their difference in strength, but they don’t anticipate him not slowing down as he slams into them, locking his arms as best he can around their waist. Before they can recover and gain ground, he’s shoving them back, straight over the ledge and into thin air, Stiles still clinging to them.

Wind rushes past his ears. The twins are shouting, arms flailing slightly, and Stiles holds on, tucks his body in against their larger one, and squeezes his eyes shut. 

He has a split second to think _this is really gonna hurt_ before the three of them slam into a dumpster. 

The twins take the brunt of the impact, the metal lid completely caving under their weight, but it still jars Stiles, head snapping forward painfully as they suddenly just _stop_. The stench of rotten food and trash surrounds him and for a moment, he can’t move, dazed and sore from the fall.

A weird, gross sound makes him open his eyes. He stares underneath him as the twins’ bodies start to… _slither_ apart, with a sickening squelching noise as flesh peels away from flesh, one body becoming two. 

Stiles grunts and fumbles until he finds the edge of the dumpster. He hauls himself up, curls one leg over the edge, and then rolls until he manages to heave himself out completely. He lands on the damp ground with another pained wheeze and lays there, breathless, as he stares up at the stars smattering across the sky above him.

A metallic _thunk_ echoes inside the dumpster. Stiles can hear rustling as trash is shoved around, but he can’t bring himself to move to look. Eventually, a figure emerges from inside the dumpster, flopping onto the ground next to Stiles.

He’s a little surprised, but relieved, that their whole twin-merging thing managed to protect them from a fall that would’ve killed most people. He doesn’t _want_ them dead, after all. He rolls his eyes to look at the twin properly. No scar on his throat. Not Aiden.

Gritting his teeth, he struggles onto his front, scrabbling to get his hands underneath him. He just needs to get on his feet so he can defend himself, he just needs to get _up_ , but his body isn’t willing to cooperate. 

The twin doesn’t try to attack Stiles. Instead, he hauls Aiden’s unconscious body out of the dumpster, grunting as he starts to drag him away. He doesn’t look back at Stiles, but Stiles doesn’t tear his gaze away until he’s certain they’re both gone.

Only then does he slump again, face mashed into the rain-damp concrete. Copper is slick on his tongue and he knows he hurts, but he can’t distinguish _where_. Using the twins had broken his fall, protecting him from a lot of damage, but it definitely isn’t something he wants to repeat. Ever.

He can’t stay here. Steeling himself, he pushes up onto his hands and knees, then reaches out to grab hold of the dumpster, using it to pull himself the rest of the way up. He staggers until his shoulder hits the brick wall and he leans against it.

Then he sees it.

A white card on the ground. For a second, he assumes it’s just trash from the dumpster, but it’s too clean for that. And it’s lying exactly where the twin fell after clambering out of the dumpster. Stiles carefully bends to pick it up. It’s damp and a little crumpled, but the logo on it is legible. 

A knotted tangle of black snakes, all eating their own tail, forming a tidy circle. Underneath, in small, neat block letters: Dionysus Labs.

That’s it. No contact number, no address, just a logo and a name. He’s willing to bet it’s to do with Hydra. Tucking the card into his pocket, Stiles allows himself a moment to just breathe, shaking off the lingering jitters of adrenaline. Then he slips out of the alley, his determination renewed despite his failure with Aiden.

He has a new lead.

***

His initial search for Dionysus Labs yields absolutely zilch.

He tries variants of everything he can think of, short of actually googling ‘Hydra secret labs’; they’re pretentious and flashy, sure, but they’re not obvious, and Stiles isn’t going to draw attention to himself by openly searching for Hydra online.

He hits a library, browsing the collection of books and research on Hydra in their history section, but neither the name or the logo shows up. He even considers trying to hack into SHIELD, but he knows that would be a bad idea. For one, he’d get in a shit load of trouble for that, and, besides, it would likely lead them right to his location.

After three days, he tries looking up the logo. There are loads of hits for ouroboros, but nothing matching the specific design on the card. Finally, however, lurking deep under a mountain of search results, is a link to a video on a paranormal website. It’s not very long, just a grainy camera-phone quality video uploaded two years ago; a group of amateur ‘ghost hunters’ who break into abandoned, supposedly haunted sites to look around and hopefully capture footage of so called paranormal encounters.

The one he watches doesn’t have many hits, since they don’t actually make it _into_ the building. The second they get close to the perimeter fence, an alarm goes off, and lights shine out from the building. But as they turn to make a break for it, the beam of their flashlights catch on a rusty sign attached to the fence. 

The logo is faded, but it’s identical to the one on the card. 

Stiles checks the information underneath the video. The group had found the building while scouting for possible haunted locations. They don’t provide specific coordinates, but they do give an indication of the location: Indiana; specifically, a forested area near a small, rural community. 

From there, it just takes a quick search of privately owned sections of forest. There’s no way Hydra would be brazen enough to build a base right in the middle of a national or public forest. They’d have bought the land, nice and quiet, and had the lab built without anyone noticing, without any public attention or the authorities knowing. Plus, it’s easier to keep people out of private land. He finds a couple of potential hits and uses Google Maps’s satellite image to peruse each area one at a time.

Eventually, he spots something. Hydra can hide their bases as much as they like, disguise it as something else, but there’s no mistaking the small grey blur of a building almost swallowed up by the trees. _Bingo_.

“Gotcha,” he murmurs.

***

He arrives in the town three days later.

Or, rather, he arrives _near_ the town. He’s hitchhiked the last leg of the journey and the trucker drops him off a few miles away. Walking the rest of the way won’t be fun, but getting transportation directly into the small town is a risk. It’s tiny enough that he’s willing to bet the slightest bit of gossip makes its way around the place _fast_ , and he really doesn’t want anyone noticing him.

Besides, if Hydra’s set up their base near the town, it’s likely they’re monitoring it, too, keeping an eye out on any new or suspicious faces.

He has a map in his hands, drawn quickly from the coordinates he’d memorized from Google, and he skirts the town completely. The forested area is about two miles out; it takes longer to go around, but he’s not going to take the risk of cutting through it since he has no clue just how monitored it might be. 

By the time he reaches the trees, it’s almost noon. The area is larger than he’d anticipated; the fringe of trees is thick, the canopy heavy, even at this time of year. A chain link fence borders the perimeter of the forest, topped with barbed wire; there’s a sign clipped to the metal a few feet to Stiles’s right, declaring ‘PRIVATE PROPERTY’ in bold, block letters. Underneath is a warning about trespassers being prosecuted.

Stiles eyes the trees behind the fence for a moment. They’re clustered so tightly together that the pale late October sunlight struggles to slant through; the depths of the forest is dark and eerily quiet. He slips his backpack off his shoulder and tugs a small set of bolt cutters out of it before approaching the fence.

It doesn’t take long to cut a hole in the bottom of fence, big enough to shove his backpack through before crawling after it. He tucks the bent metal back down, hiding the gap as much as possible, and ducks quickly into the trees. 

He checks his watch; just past noon. After consulting his map, he uses a compass – an actual _compass_ , Steve would be proud, and, fuck, the thought stings – to figure out which direction he needs to walk in. Then, grim determination filling him, he sets off. 

It takes nearly two hours before he notices the trees starting to thin out a little. Half an hour after that, he sees a little manmade road in front of him, little more than a worn path in the dirt, curving in from his right. Sticking to the cover of the trees, he follows it, until, eventually, he sees another chain link fence in the distance.

He doesn’t go any further. Instead, he makes sure his backpack is secure before scaling one of the taller trees. He climbs until he’s far enough up to get a good view without exposing himself; in his muted clothes and tucked in against the tree trunk, he’s easily hidden by the thick branches and crisp Fall leaves.

Carefully, he sets his backpack down on the trunk in front of him, unzipping it. First priority is water; he takes two swallows from his bottle, but doesn’t drink any more than that. He needs to preserve it. Thirst sated, he slips a pair of military grade binoculars – another neat purchase from his old friend in LA – out and gets settled, back leaning against the tree. He lifts the binoculars to his face and adjusts them until he’s got the perfect view.

The building is surprisingly small; at least, on the surface. Stiles can’t tell if any of it is underground or not. It’s squat, sacrificing height in order to be discreet, and utilitarian, a single, ugly square block. It’s made of bleak grey concrete with a tar pitch roof, and the windows are narrow, like slitted eyes dotted uniformly around the complex. It looks like a military base, fortified with bunker doors. 

Three vehicles are parked near it; two black vans and a Humvee. There are two guards – visibly unarmed, but Stiles is willing to bet they’re carrying – stationed at the main entrance. Another walks the perimeter of the fence. Stiles counts the cameras; four on the front of the building, two more directly over the main bunker door, six lining the front of the fence. 

Now, it’s just a matter of surveillance.

For hours, he sits there, observing the facility, memorizing the guard’s patterns and the sweep of the cameras as they turn periodically. At six, a small group of staff leave the facility, splitting themselves between the two vans. It makes sense; a couple of vehicles is less suspicious than lots trundling out of the woods. The gate opens and they pass through it, disappearing down the road. 

The building goes dark and two outdoor flood lights switch on, exposing the area directly in front of the entrance to the complex; the rest of the grounds are pitched into darkness. At eight, the guards switch out with, presumably, the security on night shift; two to man the door, one to walk the perimeter with a flashlight. 

Stiles quietly makes his way down the tree, landing softly on the dirt. He pulls a remote control car out of his backpack. It’s not the most high tech of gadgets for breaking into a Hydra lab, but after watching the cameras, he’s almost certain his plan will work. Sticking to the cover of the trees, he circles the complex until he reaches the west side of the grounds. He places the car on the ground near a tree, facing the fence, and then loops back around to the front. He tucks behind a tree within feet of the gate, hiding behind the thick trunk, and tugs two more things out of his backpack: his bolt cutters and the remote control for the toy car.

Taking a deep breath, he steels himself. He’ll have to be quick. Powering on the car, he rolls the direction stick forward while hitting the buttons to set off the horn and lights. He can hear it in the distance, see the flashes of lights, and he tosses the control aside before making a break for the gate. As he’d predicted, the cameras have all automatically swung round, sensors picking up the sudden noise, light and movement, and they’re focused on the car and not on Stiles as he makes quick work of breaking through the gate with the cutters. Once through, he tosses them into the brush nearby. 

The three guards had sprinted towards the noise, leaving Stiles a clear path to the main bunker door, but instead, he loops around the building and takes a running jump, scaling the smooth wall until he can get a hold of a window frame, latching onto it tightly. He slips a knife from his boot, carefully slides the blade between the glass and the frame, and breaks the lock, swinging the window open enough to squeeze through. It closes behind him again with a soft _thunk_ as he lands in a crouch on the floor, taking a moment to catch his breath.

This is the tricky part. They’ll know soon that the noise is just a toy car and they’ll know it’s a distraction. Stiles has no idea if there are cameras _inside_ the complex, but he’s willing to bet there are, since it’s Hydra. Soon, there will be guards heading his way. 

But he figures he has a better shot of defending himself while inside the building than trying to fight his way past guards to get into it in the first place. The brief window of time he has before his presence is exposed gives him the opportunity to figure out Deucalion’s connection to the lab. 

The room he’s in is small, furnished with a sofa, a small table with four chairs tucked around it, and a little kitchenette. It looks like a staff room. He makes his way to the door, cautiously stepping out into a long, narrow corridor. The floor and walls are all made of concrete and it’s cold, but there aren’t any cameras. 

He checks the room across from him out first. A lab. No real surprise there. Stiles explores it briefly, looks over the different chemicals and equipment, tries and fails to open a locked refrigerator. He has no idea what’s being worked on in this lab; whatever it is, it’s packed securely away now. The next three rooms are almost identical, both in appearance and their inability to provide him with anything useful. 

The room towards the end of the corridor, however, is different. When Stiles steps through the door, he pauses for a full thirty seconds, trying to make sense of what he’s seeing.

It’s a _classroom_.

Desks fill the square space in neat rows. A teacher’s station is tucked into the left corner at the front of the room. A huge screen fills the wall the desks are facing, but there are no posters or decorations lining the other swaths of blank concrete. But it’s clearly some kind of classroom; it isn’t set up for an adult conference or seminar. Yet the desks aren’t positioned to face the teacher. Instead, they’re set up for occupants to stare at the screen.

A slither of unease skims down Stiles’s spine, coiling in his belly. Quietly, he closes the door without entering the room, making his way to the second to last door. Unlike the others, it’s thicker, reinforced, and that sends another ripple of suspicion through him. Why fortify _this_ door and not the ones to the labs?

The door is also unlocked.

He pushes it open and is greeted by pure darkness, so he retrieves a small pen flashlight from his backpack. The narrow beam illuminates a set of concrete stairs leading down to another door.

For a second, Stiles can’t breathe, cast back to another set of stairs, another bunker door. He squeezes his hand into a fist, forces himself back together, and looks grimly down at the steps.

_If this was a horror movie_ , he thinks, _I’d be yelling at myself to NOT go down there right now_.

Of course, like every dumb protagonist of every horror movie he and Scott have ever rolled their eyes at, he closes the door behind him and carefully descends the stairs. The door at the bottom is also unlocked, strengthening his building suspicion that this complex is mostly abandoned. The lack of guards, the small amount of staff that had left earlier, and the mostly abandoned rooms and open doors all signify that Hydra isn’t using the building anymore. 

It’s disappointing, but there might still be some useful information here, something that will lead him to Deucalion. So he pushes open the door and steps through it. 

Instantly, the air is different; cold, damp, a little stale. This area of the facility is underground, so there aren’t any windows, adding to a sense of claustrophobia as soon as he enters a long corridor. Identical metal doors line uniformly on each side. 

Cell doors.

“Oh, Jesus,” he mutters. 

He hadn’t expected anything _good_ , considering the lab’s ties to Hydra. He’d been kinda hoping to avoid locking-people-up levels of _not good_ , though. Fucking Hydra.

Moving to the first door, he slides the metal panel aside, exposing a little slit offering a view into the room. He has to shine the beam of his flashlight in to see. The cell is tiny. A single metal bed frame, but any mattress or bedding is gone, and a toilet and sink; that’s all the furniture consists of. There isn’t even a lightbulb. 

All of the rooms are empty, but in one of them, the light from his torch catches on something. He pushes the door open, stepping into the room, and makes his way over to the bed, leaning over it to examine the wall. There, in the concrete, are smears of old, dried blood, marring the dreary grey. Fingernails marks are scratched into the surface, but something else – a sharpened stone, maybe – has been used to dig actual letters into the wall.

_AGENT M HOLLAND. SHIELD. 2 DAYS._

Over and over, the moniker is gouged into the wall, the number of days increasing as the letters get increasingly shaky and uncertain. After the 8 day mark, the words stop altogether.

Stiles pulls back, feeling sick. A SHIELD agent was held here, for at least a week. Considering the base is still standing, he’s sure SHIELD never found it, which means the likelihood of the agent being rescued, of being _alive_ , is minimal. Either they’re dead, or…

_Or_.

The classroom upstairs flashes through Stiles’s head. He eyes the letters on the wall, the desperation pouring out in the last few scratches, and he shudders, turning away. Leaving the room, he follows the bend in the corridor. He finds another lab, but this one is small and empty. The second to last door leads into a small observation room. Stiles pushes open the last door, dread slicing through him. 

As soon as he sees the contents, he closes his eyes, his suspicions confirmed. Five identical devices, neatly lined up in a row facing a large screen. Handcuffs, ankle shackles, bars to lock someone into it. A band to go around the head, smaller metal bars to keep their eyes pried open. Headphones. 

This isn’t just a lab. 

It’s a brainwashing facility.

And he’s willing to bet this is where Deucalion, the so called expert in brainwashing programs, tortured and turned some of his experiments and victims. God, this could be where he brainwashed Kali.

Stiles thinks about Kali, about some faceless SHIELD Agent called M. Holland, imprisoned in these devices for hours, _days_ on end, their brain bled out of their ears to make room for loyalty to Hydra. He thinks about the isolation, the loneliness, the _hopelessness_. He wonders how long it took before they gave in, knowing no one was coming for them.

Nausea rocks through him. Bracing one hand on the doorframe, he bends slightly, focusing on each deep, steady breath. He can’t do anything for the people who were hurt here, but he _can_ find the fucker responsible.

Anger fuels his determination. If Deucalion worked here, there must be _something_ in the building that might give him a lead to his current whereabouts. 

He leaves the brainwashing room and the cells behind him, practically sprinting up the steps in his desperation to get away from the suffocating horror they instil. When he reaches the top, he pauses to gather himself back together. The complex is still silent and that sets off alarm bells in his head, but he’s come too far to leave now just because something feels a little off.

He tries the second to last door. _This_ one is locked, but it isn’t reinforced, so it’s easy enough to break into. The room he enters is a small security office; against one wall is a bank of monitors, two empty chairs tucked up near them. Stiles approaches them, a sinking feeling in his gut. 

The cameras show the empty base and the grounds. On one monitor, he sees the Humvee disappear past the gate, flying off down the road. The security are abandoning the complex rather than defending it. The reason why is emblazoned across one of the other screens: a timer.

They’d set off a silent alarm without him even noticing, which in turn has initiated a self-destruct program.

The whole fucking place is going to blow.

Goddamn _Hydra_.

Stiles pushes away from the console, sprinting out of the room. He can feel the seconds ticking down in his head, adrenaline and visceral, primal fear tearing through him as he pushes himself to run as fast and as hard as he can towards the main entrance. In their rush, the security guards had left the bunker door open, and he throws himself through it, almost tumbling down the small step outside of it.

He knows better than to look back; instead, he keeps sprinting, gaze focused straight ahead. He makes it to the gate, almost passes through it before he feels the earth shake, hears the deep rumble from inside the base.

He feels the blast before he feels the wall of heat; it punches him straight into the air, tossing him like a ragdoll. The world spins, panic choking him, and he hits the ground several feet away, rolling across the dirt, twigs cracking and snapping underneath him. Finally, he’s stopped by the thick roots of a huge tree, and he stares up, pain and shock wrapping like a thick blanket around him.

He can’t hear; there’s a ringing in his ears, sharp and whistling and awful. He can’t _breathe_. The heat is still too close; he’s aware of it, the glow in the corner of his eye, the flames tearing any part of the complex that survived the explosion apart. He needs to move, but he _can’t_ ; his body feels like lead.

Hands touch him; fingers on his neck and his wrist. Stiles blinks, tries to make the blur above him come into focus, but he’s rapidly losing his grasp on consciousness. Vaguely, he’s aware of moving, of being dragged roughly over uneven ground.

His eyes slip shut and he falls backwards into darkness.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the delay in this chapter; it's been a rough week and this chapter turned out a lot longer than I planned. Initially, it was going to be one single chapter, but due to the length, I decided it worked better split into two. I'm uploading *both* chapters today, so be sure to check out the chapter after this one! 
> 
> warnings in this chapter for: injuries, mention of human experimentation, mention of brainwashing, and kidnapping.

The first thing Stiles is aware of is sound.

The rumble of an engine underneath his ear. The _whoosh_ of an occasional car rushing by. A door opening; someone cursing, grunting slightly; keys rattling together; the whistle of the wind. He realizes he’s slipping in and out, never fully dragging himself back to consciousness. He hears a faucet running, the creak of footsteps on floorboards. The quiet _snip_ of scissors cutting through fabric.

He tumbles back under.

Sensation seeps in slowly. The itch of a blanket over him, cool air on his exposed face and arms. Pain. He drifts again, feels a pinch in the crease of his elbow, the cold slither of something spreading through his veins for an instant before he loses himself once more.

He crawls back to reality slowly, inch by inch. For a while, he listens to the sound of a radio – no, a police scanner – and the howling of wind battering against a window. Breathing sends pain searing down his side. His face stings. His eyelids feel crusted together, gummy from being asleep for so long, and he peels them apart slowly, squinting against the light spearing down from a bare bulb right above him.

He’s in a bed; broken mattress springs dig uncomfortably into his spine. A thin wool blanket is tucked over him, his socked feet poking out from underneath it. At the end of the bed is a bare brick wall with a small, square window. It’s dusk outside, a tree directly outside the glass silhouetted against the dreary grey sky and rain clouds, and wind hammers against the window, shaking the branches of the tree. 

Slowly, Stiles rolls his head to the side. The room he’s in is small, with old, worn floorboards and exposed wooden beams. There’s a small table tucked against the wall opposite Stiles; the scanner is on top of it and a woman is sat on a stool facing the set up. 

She glances over at him. “You’re awake.”

Stiles swallows, winces slightly at his dry, sore throat. “Yeah,” he rasps. “What…? I mean, where…who…?”

“Wanna go for gold and ask ‘why’ as well?” she asks, amusement threading through her tone.

He tries to sit up, but he feels exhausted, a little hazy still. His arms feel weak underneath him as he plants his hands on the mattress, pushing himself up until he’s a little more upright. The woman watches him for a moment, then turns on her stool so she’s facing him, her hands clasped between her knees.

She’s beautiful; probably average height and lean, with dark skin and deep brown hair falling in loose curls around her shoulders. She’s wearing leather pants tucked into tall lace up boots and a long sleeved white shirt. Three scars run diagonally across her throat and up one side of her jaw. 

“You’ve been out for nine hours, but most of that is because I gave you some pain relief,” she says. 

That explains why his tongue feels fuzzy and gross. Pain relief meds always make him feel icky. “Who are you?” he asks.

“I’m Braeden.”

“That…tells me practically nothing.”

She smiles slightly at that, arching an eyebrow. “You nearly got your dumb ass blown up. I saved you from burning to a crisp, patched you up as best I could in my van, and brought you back here to help you out properly. You’re welcome.”

“Oh. I’m -.”

“Stiles. Yeah, I know who you are.” 

He sighs. “I get that a lot.” 

He tries to sit up a little more. He doesn’t like this, being in a vulnerable position with a stranger in close proximity. 

“Easy,” she warns. “You’re lucky. You cleared the grounds pretty quickly, so you didn’t get too badly hurt, but you’re gonna be a bit sore.”

“What’s the damage?”

“You got cut up by some debris. Right underneath your ribs; not too deep, but I had to sew you up. A nice lump on your head and a concussion, so I’m guessing you’re feeling pretty shit right now. I think you sprained your shoulder when it took the brunt of your fall, and you’ve got some small second degree burns on your side. Everything else is superficial; some shallow cuts and bruises. You were lucky.”

Stiles closes his eyes. It still hasn’t sunk in how close he was to getting blown into meaty chunks. “I’m an idiot. It was a trap.”

“Actually,” Braeden replies. “It wasn’t.”

He opens his eyes, looking at her. She gazes steadily back, her expression unreadable, but he recognizes the quiet strength in her body, the coiled element to her posture, like she’s ready to strike in an instant if needs be. She’s a fighter. 

“You know what that facility was for?” she asks.

“Yeah. I saw the underground part. It was a brainwashing lab.”

“That was its initial purpose, yeah. It was run by a guy named Deucalion. He was in charge of the brainwashing program. Apparently, he did a pretty good job, except he pushed the boundaries a little too much. You saw the classroom?” When Stiles nods, she offers a grim smile. “For the children of higher up Hydra figureheads. They agreed to send their kids there to be brainwashed, to be trained to be _soldiers_ for the good of the Hydra cause. And it worked.”

Stiles swallows, leaning his head back into the pillows. He’d suspected it the second he saw the classroom, but the confirmation makes him feel sick. _Kids_. Being willingly sent by their parents to have their souls sucked out, everything they are ripped apart and changed, moulded into a perfect Hydra soldier. It’s fucking _sick_.

“Deucalion was pretty good friends with Daniel Whitehall, apparently,” Braeden adds. “He ran the program under Whitehall’s orders, provided him with the completed product to be used to convert SHIELD and CIA agents. But then Deucalion tried to expand the classroom program for children. He wanted to see how it worked on ordinary civilian kids, ones who hadn’t been exposed to Hydra before. Whitehall didn’t like it; it was too risky. So he shut down the program and reassigned Deucalion to running the brainwashing program on adult agents under Whitehall’s supervision. I have no idea what he’s doing now; he and his team hit the ground a while ago. I can’t get any leads on where he is or what his current operation for Hydra involves.”

“There were staff,” Stiles says. “At the complex.”

She nods. “It’s a useful location. A small team of scientists have been assigned there to perform some low level Hydra experiments. I don’t know what they’re working on, but they obviously had no clue about you. When you broke in, you tripped a silent alarm, so they followed procedure and set off the self-destruct system. It wasn’t a trap. Just a really dumb decision on your part.”

“How do you know all of this?”

“Because I found and checked out that facility three months ago. When it turned up nothing, I hunted down one of the former employees stationed at the complex while Deucalion was there. A psychologist who was with Hydra under duress rather than due to loyalty. He told me everything I wanted to know.” 

Stiles looks back at the window, watching the branches shake and creak under the wind’s assault. His mind feels sluggish and slow, sleep still clinging to the corners of his mind. He mulls over her words, lets them sink in, before glancing at her again.

“You’re after Deucalion?” 

She nods, leaning forward slightly. “So are you.”

“That’s why you went back to the facility. You were following me.” Stiles runs his tongue along his bottom teeth. “How long?”

“Since LA.”

Son of a bitch. He hadn’t even _noticed_ her. She’s good. Really fucking good. He’s a little unnerved, but he tries not to dwell on it. After all, if she’d been following him for that long, she’d had plenty of opportunity to pull something off if she wanted to, and she hadn’t. In fact, she’d saved his ass back at the complex. 

“Why?” he asks.

“I saw you on the news,” she replies. “What happened in Arizona. Plenty of people were speculating if you were going after Hydra. So I found you in LA -.”

“ _How_?”

She smiles, showing teeth. “I’m very good at what I do. And after I found you, I followed you, to see if the rumors were true. When I saw you go after those twins, I knew it was. So then I followed to see just what you can do.” She looks at him for a moment. “I also saw what happened with that woman. Julia Baccari. She was engaged to Kali, one of Deucalion’s team. So, is that why you’re going after him? For revenge? Or for atonement?”

He opens his mouth, then closes it again, unsure how to respond. Atonement? For what he did while under Julia’s influence? He hadn’t thought of it that way, though he doesn’t know if he can truly, honestly say that there isn’t any part of him that wishes doing this would atone for his actions, for the deaths and injuries and horrors he caused. 

But it doesn’t work that way. He knows it doesn’t.

“Does it matter?” he finally manages, keeping his tone even.

“No,” she allows. “There’s only one question that matters.”

“What?”

Dark eyes pin him in place, holding his gaze, her expression serious as she asks, “What you pulled back there was stupid. I think you know just how reckless it was. So. Do you want to die?”

The question is so unexpected that, for a moment, it completely stumps Stiles. His mouth opens automatically to answer, but the flash of warning on her face is enough to silence him, to make him actually _think_ about it.

Does he want to die? After everything that happened, everything he did, everything he’s feeling now, all these months later, as a result of Julia, and Deucalion, and his own weakness? Is that what he’s been running from – or running to?

The strength, the fierceness of his answer, is surprising in its intensity, swelling inside of him, filling him with a brutal, cold kind of determination, a will to survive that’s deeper and more primal than anything he’s ever felt before. 

“No,” he says.

Braeden smiles. “Good.”

***

The burns are definitely not as bad as he’d been expecting.

They look gnarly; a couple of patches of skin on the left side of his torso and thigh are red and inflamed, with a few little, gross looking blisters. So long as he doesn’t let them get infected, he figures he should heal in a couple of weeks, and if he scars, they won’t be too noticeable. He loosely wraps non-stick burn bandages around them. 

The cut on his right side is around three inches long, curving in a slight half-moon right underneath his bottom rib. Braeden’s stitching is neat, uniform enough to show experience. His shoulder is swollen and aches, but he doesn’t think it’s a full sprain, at least, and the few cuts and bruises littering his body are minor, barely stinging when he moves. He has to part his hair to see the lump on the side of his skull, wincing slightly when it throbs. 

Braeden had needed to cut him out of his clothes to access the burns and cut safely, so he stands in his boxers, staring at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. He desperately wants a bath or shower, but he’s too exhausted to risk it, so he cleans up in the sink, washing away blood and grime to reduce the risk of infection to his wounds. 

He has no idea where he is. When he’d asked, Braeden had simply told him that the small building is a safehouse she utilizes often, and that it’s secure enough to lay low in while he recovers.

He knows she wants to work with him. They both want to take down Deucalion and they have a better shot at it if they team up. He also knows that he’s already decided he is going to work with her. 

He’s been alone for too long. He wants this to be done and over, and it’s obvious Braeden can help him track Deucalion down. After all, she’d gathered the intel on the facility in Indiana _months_ before Stiles.

So he tugs on the clothes she’d rustled up for him – a pair of too big sweatpants and a warm hoodie – and his socks, and makes his way back into the room with the bed. Braeden’s listening to the scanner again, but she switches it off when he carefully sits down on the mattress, wincing at the pull in his injuries.

“What’s that for?” he asks, nodding slightly to the scanner.

“There’s plenty of people out there who need help,” she replies. “Just because it has nothing to do with Hydra, doesn’t mean I won’t help them.”

He smiles slightly. “You’re a vigilante.”

“No. I’m just someone with a very specific skill set. Are you hungry?”

The loud rumble of his stomach is answer enough. She disappears, the sound of her boots echoing through the old, narrow building. Stiles checks his backpack, but everything that should be in there still is, including the knife that had been tucked in his boot. 

Braeden returns with two cans. She offers him one with a fork. “I hope you like tuna. It was that or MRE.”

Stiles pulls a face, accepting the can. “Yeah, I’ll take the tuna, thanks.” 

She sits back on the stool, tugging a Swiss army knife out of her boot. She flicks out the can opener to peel the lid off the tin before snapping the knife shut again and tossing it to Stiles. He manages to catch it despite how sore he is and opens his own can with only minimal struggle, considering his shoulder. 

The tuna is still within its expiry date, soaked in salty brine. It’s not exactly delicious, but it’s edible, and Stiles is hungry enough to devour half a can within minutes. Only when his initial hunger is sated a little does he speak.

“You said you have a very specific skill set,” he says. “What do you mean?”

“I used to work for the CIA,” she replies. “That’s where I learned some field medic skills. After I left, I was a marshal for a while, but the whole…bureaucracy nonsense, it was just a constant circle of bullshit, the same as when I was with the CIA. So after that, I worked as a merc.” She shrugs slightly. “A girl’s gotta eat.”

“And now?”

“Now I’m hunting down Deucalion.”

“Why?”

She chews for a moment, gaze fixed on his face, assessing. Then she swallows and sighs, setting her can and fork aside. She points to the scars on her throat. “Because he gave me these.”

“Jesus,” he mutters. “ _Why_?”

“When I was a merc, I was always careful when it came to accepting jobs. There are certain people I won’t work for, no matter what they offer as payment. Hydra is one of them. So when they tried to hire me, I said no. Apparently, Deucalion really isn’t a fan of being told ‘no’. He tracked me down himself to try and change my mind. When I didn’t, he had one of his team – Kali – try to persuade me using more…forceful methods.” She traces the scars with her fingers. “When I still refused, they left me there, tied up and bleeding, to die. But I didn’t.”

“And now you want revenge,” Stiles murmurs.

“Sure. Of course I do. But I also want to put him down for who he is and what he’s done. For what he _can_ do. He’s not just Hydra - though, believe me, I want to shut Hydra down as much as the next sane person. He’s a powerful member of the inner circle. He’s dangerous. His brainwashing program and his…obsession with a particular set of people, his desire to _collect_ them, and make them his to add to his protection, that’s what makes him so dangerous. He needs to be stopped before he decides to stop hiding in the shadows.”

“A particular set of people,” Stiles repeats. “Like Aiden Steiner and his twin? People with abilities?”

“People with _powerful_ abilities,” she agrees. “Another of his team, Kali, she has shapeshifting abilities. She could adopt the traits of a wolf. She was fast, and strong, and she could grow claws. These scars weren’t done by a knife.”

Stiles closes his eyes, leaning forward slightly as an old wound in his chest opens up, raw and bleeding. The pit in his stomach howls, threatening to swallow him up as he fights back nausea. Kali had abilities. An Inhuman, maybe, or enhanced through other means, but she hadn’t used her claws or her strength when fighting Julia. She’d held back because she hadn’t wanted to hurt the woman she loved again. 

And it had killed her.

“What?” Braeden questions.

“Kali’s dead. Julia killed her.”

She’s quiet for long enough that Stiles opens his eyes again, looking at her. She’s frowning slightly, chewing over his words.

“How?” she asks.

“She broke the brainwashing. When she heard that Julia was alive, she found us. But Julia killed her.”

“She broke the conditioning?” Braeden demands, tone tight. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. I saw it myself. And the twins…on that roof, I saw something, a kind of…hesitation, almost. They gave me a chance to walk away. I don’t know for sure, it’s just speculation, but I think…”

“You think they might be breaking it too,” she finishes.

“A little, maybe, yeah.”

She stands, pacing slightly. “If his team can break free of their conditioning, we can utilize that. They’re not as loyal as Deucalion thinks. That makes him vulnerable. We can exploit that weakness.”

“Do you have any idea where he could be?” Stiles asks.

“No. I’ve been chasing lead after lead, but it’s like trying to hunt down a ghost. He doesn’t know I’m alive, which is the only advantage I have. He doesn’t know I’m coming for him. But _you_ , he knows about. He’s actively trying to find you.” She turns slightly, looking at him. “That’s why I want us to work together. If he’s looking for you, we can use that to lure him out. We can take him out together.”

Adrenaline spikes through Stiles. It’s similar to his own plan, except with the added advantage of an ally Deucalion has no idea about. A _strong_ ally, with the skills and experience to provide Stiles with the help he needs going up against someone as powerful and elusive as Deucalion and his inner circle. 

“When do we start?”

Braeden pauses. “You need to heal first.” 

Stiles bites back a curse. He knows she’s right; he’d be useless in a fight right now. He needs to rest and recover, then regain his strength before trying to go after anyone. But the thought of waiting makes him antsy, that itch building under his skin again. 

“In the meantime?” he asks.

“Deucalion’s my endgame, sure. But there are other people I’m trying to track down. People just as dangerous as Hydra.”

Stiles glances at the police scanner. “Your vigilante business?”

“Not a vigilante,” she reminds him. “I help where I can. But there’s someone I’m trying to find. I think you can help.”

She grabs a little manila folder from the table, holding it out. Stiles sets his empty can and fork aside and takes the folder, flipping it open. The first sheet of paper is a picture, black and white and grainy, of a man who looks to be in his late thirties, with thinning salt and pepper hair, a bristly moustache, and pale eyes behind thin rimmed glasses. He’s short and thin, wiry almost, dressed in a stuffy looking suit, hands clasped in front of him as he gazes solemnly at the camera.

“Dr E.M Jakobsson,” she says. “You already know about him.”

Stiles frowns, glancing up at her before looking back down at the photo. Neither the face or the name rings a bell.

“I have no idea who he is,” he replies.

“But I’m willing to bet you have heard about him,” she presses. “He has a very specific agenda. An obsession, almost, with instilling enhanced abilities in people who previously had none.”

A chill goes down Stiles’s spine. He stares down at Dr Jakobsson’s face, at the gaunt, weedy quality to his appearance, the grimness in his expression. 

This is the man who made Julia into such a powerful weapon.

Stiles swallows. “Julia mentioned him,” he mutters. “Not his name. Nothing specific about him. Just that she found someone who hated Hydra just as much as she did. She said he was experimenting on willing participants, trying to replicate a mutation virus to produce powers in baseline humans.”

Braeden nods. “That,” she says, gesturing to the photo. “Was taken during his time with Hydra.”

Stiles’s gaze snaps up. “ _With_ Hydra?” He exhales sharply. “Of course. Why not. Shady human experimentation is kind of Hydra’s MO, isn’t it?”

“Jakobsson is a genius. His work on genetics is unparalleled; he’s always been obsessed with discovering and manufacturing whatever it is that gives certain people preternatural abilities. It’s why, before Hydra recruited him, he was terminated from his research position at a university affiliated lab. His thirst for knowledge, for control over genetics, swamped any kind of morality, apparently, so Whitehall personally hired him. He wanted Jakobsson to keep experimenting, to produce perfect soldiers with abilities. Only a tiny percentage of his attempts were successful. You can guess where the successes _went_.”

“Deucalion’s team,” Stiles realizes. “So, Jakobsson manages to trigger some kind of gift in them, then Deucalion brainwashes them. Whitehall was looking to create an army.” 

It makes sense. Stiles has looked over the files, the ones that weren’t massively redacted, anyway. Whitehall had been obsessed with the Obelisk, with the potential of what it could do, how it could help him and Hydra to gain power once again. It makes sense that he was also exploring other avenues of creating enhanced soldiers and making sure they were faultlessly loyal to the cause. 

It’s sick, but it’s _smart_. And now, even though Whitehall is dead, his plan is still turning; Deucalion is still out there, and so is Jakobsson.

“Why did Julia think he hated Hydra?” he asks.

“Because he did. Jakobsson’s successes were mostly accidental. He couldn’t figure out _why_ it worked on some people and killed the rest. Only two percent of his trials worked. It wasn’t enough for Whitehall, so he cut Jakobsson off. He used an amnesiac on him and dumped him in the middle of nowhere to live out a long, shitty life, with no memory of Hydra so he wasn’t an exposure risk. But Jakobsson had anticipated it. He’d prepared himself for it. The amnesiac didn’t work.”

“So he continued his work,” Stiles guesses. “On his own. With willing volunteers.”

“To start with. Julia Baccari must have been one of his earlier attempts. It makes sense; she despised Hydra and so did he, so he signed her up for the experiment in the hopes she would be able to enact revenge.” Braeden folds her arms. “But when he still didn’t make any progress with willing volunteers, he branched out.”

“Branched out how?” Stiles asks quietly, despite the sick feeling in his gut telling him he really doesn’t want to know.

“Plenty of homeless people with no one to worry about them if they go missing,” Braeden points out quietly. “He’s done some shady deals, too, exploiting the corruption in the prison system to get a hold of convicts with no family or connections. Anyone he can kidnap without drawing attention to it.”

Stiles swallows. Human experimentation is usually a pretty bleak term, but knowing that Jakobsson is out there somewhere, performing these trials on unwilling, imprisoned people makes him feel sick to the core. It’s pure _evil_. 

“And the ones who fail,” he says. “They die?”

“I don’t know specifics of the procedure itself. But, yeah, most of them die. The ones that don’t get dispatched anyway.”

“Right. Can’t have them running off and telling the authorities about the sick, mad scientist torturing people.” Stiles looks down at the photo. Seething anger snarls in his chest.   
“But he’s connected to Deucalion. We find him, he might have some useful information to help us track him down. And we get to bring him and his twisted experiments down.”

“Two birds, one stone,” Braeden agrees. “So. Are you in?”

Adrenaline and renewed, fiery determination crashes through Stiles. He has a purpose. An _important_ one. This isn’t just about stopping Deucalion anymore. It’s about making sure he can’t hurt anyone else with his program. It’s about finding and stopping an evil, sick bastard experimenting on people. It’s about helping, _saving_ , hundreds of lives.

It’s making sure that nothing like Julia can happen again because of Jakobsson, or Deucalion, or goddamn Hydra. 

“I’m in.”

***

They stay at the safehouse while Stiles heals.

Braeden disappears intermittently, stocking up on supplies or, once or twice, going on intel gathering trips. Stiles is impatient, eager to get started, but he knows that he’ll only heal slower if he pushes it, so he sticks to resting.

Once he’s recovered enough, he starts doing some exercises, making sure the burns won’t heal too tightly and his shoulder won’t start locking up. Braeden removes the stitches for him when he’s ready. Then, as his health improves and he starts regaining his strength, she begins training him.

They start slow, with strength exercises, gradually increasing to weighted runs through the woods behind the property and martial arts training. Braeden is incredibly skilled, fast and strong and sharp, adjusting to match and beat anything he throws at her. It helps; he’s rebuilding on the skills he’s allowed to get a little rusty since leaving SHIELD, and he’s learning new ones. With her help, he’s getting stronger, _better_.

They also plan. Braeden’s folder on Jakobsson is thick, full of information she’s gathered from former friends and colleagues, from members of Hydra who worked with him that she’d managed to track down. She’s meticulously put together a map of places he’s known to be in the past, cross referencing it with areas with the highest statistics of thinning homeless populations and questionable prison ‘deaths’. The intel is thorough and remarkable, showing months of hard work and dedication.

That methodical part of Stiles, the part that pushes him to build investigation boards, to seek out answers and tie up every loose thread, appreciates the hell out of it. 

“I have his current whereabouts narrowed down to five possible areas,” she says, pointing to five black X’s marked on a map.

Multi-coloured pins dot the rest of it; green marks places he’s confirmed to have been in for an extended period of time. Orange shows areas she suspects he’s been based in, though she can’t verify it. Red are places she’s managed to rule out. 

Stiles looks at the X’s and raises his eyebrows. “It’s gonna take us a while to search all of these places,” he points out.

It’s already late November. It’ll take them weeks to travel to and thoroughly check out all of the suspected locations, all without drawing attention to themselves. 

“Right,” she agrees. “But I think I know the best place to start.” She points to an area on the map. “I think Jakobsson fucked up.”

Stiles looks over her shoulder, following the line of her finger. “Seattle?”

“A month ago, a man named Bill was reported missing. No known surname, no information on him, besides a description from the guy who made the report. Bill was an addict. He spent a lot of time at a camp, which is where he met Rocky, the kid who tried to alert the police when Bill disappeared. The same kid has been putting up flyers all over the city with a description of Bill, trying to draw attention to him going missing, but as you can imagine, it’s not really working.” Braeden shakes her head slightly. “I mean, the authorities are hardly lifting a finger to look for him, and no one is really concerned about a homeless junkie disappearing. But to people like you and me, people who looking for these connections?”

“You think Jakobsson took Bill as a test subject,” Stiles says.

She nods. “It’s worth a look.”

“You don’t think Jakobsson will have moved on?”

“I doubt it. He screwed up by not realizing that Bill had a friend at the camp, someone who would care if he disappeared. But he probably isn’t worried. Like I said, no one else is concerned about it, and there’s nothing linking it to Jakobsson. It isn’t worth the hassle of moving.” 

Stiles nods. “Alright,” he says. “Seattle. It’s a hell of a drive. It’ll take even longer if we use buses.”

Braeden grins. “Who said anything about driving?”

***

The disguise Braeden gets together for him is good.

His wig is sandy blond, peppered with just a few, subtle strands of grey; it’s long and tied back in a loose, scruffy knot on the nape of his neck with a leather band. It gives him a different hairline while still looking completely natural. Instead of going for contact lenses that would alter his eye color completely, they choose a subtler change; the lenses shift his normal amber irises to a deeper, muddier brown.

He shaves his beard into a pencil thin chin strap style with a hint of fuzz coating his cheeks in bristly scruff and slathers tinted moisturizer over his whole body, covering his usual pale complexion with a hint of sun kissed bronze to mimic a fading tan. Dressed in clothes typical of a backpacker and wearing rounded glasses with translucent frames, he looks a hell of a lot different. 

He doesn’t look better than he usually does, but he doesn’t look bad to the point of drawing attention. He just looks different, and bland enough to blend in as just another hipster backpacker returning home after a few months of travelling hot, sunny countries. 

Braeden puts together their false passports and documents, using a picture of Stiles in his disguise, and purchases their tickets using cash. According to his passport, he’s Trent Stevens, he’s twenty nine, and he’s from San Francisco. 

Unlike Stiles, Braeden’s face isn’t everywhere, but, despite now being a ghost to the authorities after burning down her old life to become a merc and, now, pursue Deucalion, she _is_ in CIA records, so she still alters her appearance. She cuts her own hair in the sink, giving herself full, blunt bangs, and braids one side of her hair back, the rest curling over her shoulder. Her contact lenses add a hint of hazel flecks to her irises and she wears a gold ring in her left nostril. Dressed in a flowing boho dress over shorts, knee high socks and hiking boots, and with a feathered scarf wound into her hair and thick rimmed, round glasses on her face, Braeden – or, according to her passport, ‘Beatrix’ - matches Stiles’s cover easily.

They leave everything that doesn’t fit their disguises behind, including Stiles’s replacement knife, and hitchhike to the airport. Braeden is brilliant; she slides into her cover as smoothly and flawlessly as he’s only ever seen Natasha pull off so perfectly. She _becomes_ Beatrix, adopting a valley girl accent, grinning like she’s made of pure sunshine and good vibes as she tells the driver all about their ‘travels’. 

While they wait for their flight, they grab coffee in one of the outlets in the airport. Even with Stiles’s plaid hoodie and Braeden’s denim jacket, it’s cold, but it works; they look like a couple of amateur backpackers, underdressed for returning to the States in November. Braeden holds his hand as they drink their coffee, fiddling and playing with his fingers, smiling as they talk about their imaginary dog back at their imagery home. They’re wearing matching bracelets made of multi-coloured threads woven together.

For once, Stiles doesn’t feel tense and constantly on guard. He’s cautious, keeping an eye out without noticeably observing the people around them, and he’s ready for the possibility of something going wrong, but he doesn’t feel so paranoid with Braeden sat next to him. After all, anyone looking for him expects him to be alone. 

Boarding the plane is slightly more stressful. He doesn’t like being stuck in a tube in the sky with no escape plan. The vulnerable, cornered feeling makes gives him a sense of being trapped, but Braeden is a calm, reassuring presence at his side. She rests her hand on his knee and smiles when a flight attendant glances at him on her way down the aisle.

“Scared of flying,” she says. 

The attendant gives him a warm smile and carries on. Braeden hands Stiles a pair of headphones as soon as the on flight movie starts and that helps; focusing on the characters on the screen helps to wash everything else out of his head, easing his paranoia for the duration of the flight.

Shuffling back off the plane and through the airport in Seattle is just as uneventful. It’s raining, a sharp, cool wind whistling through the air, and Braeden hurries to grab them a taxi, rattling off an address to the driver with her sunshine smile firmly in place. She keeps up the façade for the entire drive, through paying and tipping, and right up until the taxi rolls away again. Only then does the smile drop, seriousness slipping over her expression as she sheds her cover as quickly and easily as if she’s shedding her jacket.

“This way,” she says, setting off down the sidewalk.

It’s a twenty minute walk to the building she leads him to. It’s a modern, blocky looking house, with lots of sleek glass, steel and wood. Trees fringe the property, separating it from the equally expensive looking glorified cubes on the street. Braeden climbs the steps to the door; there’s a little metal box next to it and she punches in a code to open it, retrieving a set of keys to the house. 

Once they’re inside, the door safely shut behind them, Stiles gives her a curious look, but she lifts one finger, silently telling him to wait. He lingers in the entry hall as she does a sweep of the house, presumably checking for cameras or bugs, before she finally returns. 

“Safehouse,” she explains.

“For?”

“Well, technically, the CIA.”

Stiles raises an eyebrow. “Oh, so not risky at all, then,” he drawls.

“It hasn’t been used in over two years,” she says. “They rarely actually use it. When they do, it’s generally just for an overnight stop, or for a transfer of an informant seeking refuge and protection between handlers.”

“How can you be sure they won’t know we’ve been here?” he asks. “Isn’t this place monitored?”

“Not excessively. The security system and cameras have been taken care of.” Braeden crosses her arms. “Look, I’ve been doing this a lot longer than you have, Stiles. Trust that I know what I’m doing.” 

He winces slightly. “Right. Sorry.”

“Caution is good. Paranoia isn’t. Come on.” She turns, heading up the stairs.

The place is hideous, a weird clash of minimalism and modern art and sculptures, and the stairs are a set of twisting, misshapen metal, writhing its way up to the second floor. She leads him to a room; it’s small, with one wall made entirely of glass, the rest all bland white. Stiles dumps his bag on the bed.

“Here,” she says, pointing to a switch on the wall. 

When she flicks it, a sheet of metal slides down, securely covering all of the windows and the glass wall, pitching the room into darkness. Stiles switches on the lamp on the nightstand, filling the small space with a warm golden glow.

“I’ll be just down the hall.”

Stiles watches her go, then quickly sheds his disguise, relieved to be free of the wig and contact lenses after hours of wearing them. He shaves the hideous chin strap beard off and strips, opening the closet door. There’s a set of clothes already waiting; he pulls on a pair of jeans, a Henley, and a dark green hoodie that are all his exact size. Suspicion crawls through him, but he tries not to dwell on the paranoia as he closes the closet again and makes his way down the hall.

The room Braeden is in faces the front of the house. She’s lowered the metal shutters, but she’s already changed, dressed in sleek black jeans and a white tank top, the scarf removed from her hair. Stiles watches as she stashes her backpack and disguise away in the closet, catching a brief glimpse of racks of weapons lining the interior of the large space.

“So,” he says. “I’m guessing the CIA doesn’t usually leave that kind of gear lying around in their safehouses. Or clothes that, miraculously, fit me perfectly.”

Braeden casts him an amused glance. “Not usually, no,” she agrees. “That was provided by the same person who made sure we could use this place with no issues.” She unties the braids from her hair and pulls the locks back into a secure ponytail, bangs pinned back from her face. “A contact still within the organization. She was my former partner and my friend. She helps me out now and then, in return for information she’d struggle to get through official channels.”

Stiles nods. “So, what’s first?”

“We find Rocky. See what information we can get from him on Bill and, hopefully, Jakobsson.” Braeden grabs a knife from the rack of weapons, flipping it over her fingers so she’s holding it by the blade, handle extended to him. “Ready?”

He takes the knife, tests the weight and balance before tucking it in his boot. “I’m ready.”

***

Finding the camp is easy enough. Unfortunately, finding Rocky isn’t.

They stop to ask a few people, but, unsurprisingly, most are reluctant to give up information on the kid. The sense of community, of looking out for each other as best they can while trying to survive on the streets, is palpable, and they don’t hold back their natural suspicion of Stiles and Braeden as they ask questions. 

After half an hour, however, a man stops them, his gaze fixed on Stiles.

“You,” he says gruffly. “I know you.”

Stiles pauses, hands tucked in his pockets. He’s wearing a knitted hat and the hood of his sweater is up, and they’ve been avoiding the city cameras, following his usual methods of going undetected, but this close up, it isn’t hugely surprising that someone recognizes him. 

The man looks to be in his sixties, with grey hair tangled around his chin and a thick beard. His face is pale and worn, dirt crusted under his fingernails, and he’s standing at a fire crackling in an old trash can, huddled close to it to keep warm. Watery blue eyes stare sharply at Stiles’s face.

“You’re that kid,” he adds. “Stilinski.”

“Stiles,” he replies quietly. “Yeah.”

The woman stood next to the old man peers closer at him. “I’ve heard about you. You’re one of those vigilantes.”

“I’m not…” Stiles shakes his head slightly. “I’m not a vigilante.”

The man points a finger at Stiles. “But you’re after Hydra.”

Stiles nods. “We think Rocky can help. We’re not here in an official capacity, we just want to try and find Bill and the guy we think took him.”

Both of them look at Stiles for a long moment. Finally, however, the man murmurs something in the woman’s ear, and she walks away. Braeden stays quiet at Stiles’s side as they wait, cautious, but only a few minutes later, the woman returns, a young man with her. 

He’s probably in his early twenties, with tattoos coiled around his neck and a gaunt, pale face. He has a beanie slouched over his blond hair and grey eyes flick between Stiles and Braeden, suspicion sharp on his face.

“You’re lookin’ for Bill?” he says.

Stiles nods. “We think we might know how to find him,” he replies. “But we just need to ask you a couple of things first.”

Rocky brings his hand up, pulling at a ragged hangnail on his thumb with yellowed teeth. Finally, he gives a jerky nod, then tips his chin slightly to signal for them to follow him. As they leave the camp, Stiles tugs his hat and hood a little lower over his face, keeping his gaze away from cameras as they make their way down the street.

Rocky takes them to a small diner. As soon as the door opens, heat and the smell of grease blasts over them like a wave, chasing away the chill of the rain slamming down outside. Rocky goes straight to the counter, where a woman with dyed red hair and blue eyeshadow glances up from her phone. The tag on her red shirt says her name is ‘Wren’.

“Hey, Rocky,” she greets. “You doing okay, kid?”

He nods. “Yeah. Barb okay?”

Wren nods. “About as okay as she usually is,” she replies. “I’ll get you some coffee.”

“Three,” Rocky says, gesturing to Stiles and Braeden.

Wren glances between them, gaze suspicious, but when Rocky gives her a single nod, she shrugs and grabs three cups from under the counter. 

“Can I get you anything else?” she asks. 

“Fries,” Stiles says. “And a Rueben. B?”

Braeden glances over the menu board. “I’ll get the double cheeseburger. Waffle fries, not curly.”

Rocky looks at them for a moment, then says, “The barbecue and bacon, Wren. And dirty fries.”

“Sure,” Wren replies. “I’ll bring them right over.”

Stiles tugs cash out of his pocket, enough to cover the bill and a generous tip, and places the stack of notes on the counter. Wren pockets the tip and looks away as the three of them collect their mugs of coffee, silently assuring them that she’s going to mind her own business. 

They find a table tucked in the corner. A glossy, fake plant tickles Stiles’s arm as he scoots his chair in, setting his mug down on the sticky formica surface. The place is quiet; a guy reading a paper is sat by the counter and a woman and a toddler are drinking shakes in a booth near the door. Stiles dumps a load of sugar into his coffee and stirs it before taking a sip, ignoring the look of pure judgement he receives from Braeden as she braves drinking her cup of bitter tar unsweetened.

“I know who you are,” Rocky says, jerking his chin slightly at Stiles. “But who the hell are you, lady?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Braeden replies evenly. “What matters is that we think we can find Bill.”

He looks between them, doubt stark on his face. Neither of them speak, just gaze back at him, waiting for him to make a decision on whether to trust them or not. After a long, tense moment, he sighs and tugs his hat off, scraping bony fingers through greasy hair.

“You think fuckin’ _Hydra_ took Bill?” he asks. “Why?”

Stiles glances at Braeden. She gives a little shrug, clearly not sure about telling Rocky everything about Jakobsson and his connection to Hydra, but Stiles doubts Rocky will be honest if they aren’t completely truthful with him in return. After all, it does sound pretty crazy that Hydra would kidnap Bill, and Rocky’s looking at them now with blatant suspicion.

So he goes out on a limb and tells him. 

“There’s this man,” he says. “A scientist. He used to work with Hydra, before they gave him the boot. He’s been experimenting on human subjects and we think he’s been using homeless people, people who won’t be missed, who the authorities won’t look too hard for.”

A dark, grim look flashes over Rocky’s face. “Yeah,” he says bitterly. “Well, you got that fuckin’ right. No one’s looking for him. They think he’s just another junkie who’s overdosed and will turn up dead in a ditch somewhere. But that’s bullshit, okay? Bill was clean. He’d been clean for eight fuckin’ months. He was tryin’ to help me to get off the stuff, too. And then he just disappears? Nah, man. He wouldn’t just fuck off.”

Braeden nods. “We think this man, this scientist, took him, and we think he’s in Seattle, but we don’t have any other leads. Was Bill talking to anyone before he disappeared? Did he mention anything to you?”

Rocky blows out a breath. “I dunno. Look, he’s my friend, but he didn’t talk much about himself. Kept himself to himself most of the time, you know? People come and go from the camp. Bill included. I never asked where he went. Sometimes he’d have some cash, or food he’d split with me. I just figured it was a good Samaritan or something.”

Braeden glances at Stiles. They have no way of knowing if the food or money was from Jakobsson; like Rocky said, it _could_ have been a good Samaritan. But it could also be a lead. If it is Jakobsson, it suggests a pattern, a method of bribing victims before taking them, which makes sense. Kidnapping someone is hard to do, but luring them in, making them come along willingly? That’s the best way of getting his victims without drawing any attention.

Wren approaches the table with three plates, setting them down. She gives Rocky a look, but when he just nods slightly in return, she walks away again, ducking back behind the counter. Stiles grabs the bottle of ketchup, drowning his fries before he picks one up, biting into it. It’s hot, greasy and salty, and exactly what he needs. 

Rocky practically inhales his food, devouring half in the time it takes Stiles to take two bites of his burger. When he slows down a little, Braeden speaks up again.

“He never mentioned anything?” she prompts. “Even the slightest thing?” 

“I dunno. Like I said, he…” Rocky trails off, sitting back. He frowns slightly. “There is this one guy. But I never saw him with Bill.”

“Who _did_ you see him with?” Stiles asks.

“Bill isn’t the first person to just disappear off the streets, y’know?” Rocky says. “No one really cares. But in the camp, _we_ notice. Normally, they just… _poof_ , gone, nothing. But a few months ago, this chick, Callie? I saw her get into this guy’s car. Three days later, she was gone.”

Braeden tugs a folded up piece of paper out of her pocket and opens it up, folding out the creases before passing it over. It’s the picture of Jakobsson.

“This the guy you saw?”

Rocky looks at the picture. “Yeah. Definitely. Fuck, his glasses are the same. This is the dude.”

Braeden leans forward. “Where and exactly when did you see Callie get into his car?”

He rattles off a date and a street name, and then makes quick work of finishing his food and coffee. “You really think you can find Bill? And Callie?”

“We’re gonna try,” Braeden promises. She slips a roll of cash out of her pocket, placing it on the table. “Thanks for your time, Rocky.”

Stiles drains the rest of his coffee and gets to his feet, following Braeden out of the diner. It’s raining even harder and he shoves his hands into his pockets, squaring his shoulders slightly to brace against the harsh wind. 

They don’t need to talk; they’re both on the same page when it comes to what their next step will be. If Jakobsson’s been picking his victims up in a car, they can try and access CCTV footage from the day of Callie’s disappearance, on the street Rocky saw her. If they can get a clear image of Jakobsson’s licence plates, they’ll be able to track his vehicle, hopefully straight to wherever it is he’s living.

They take the bus for most of the way back to the safehouse, walking the last few blocks. Stiles hangs up his hoodie and leaves his damp boots by the door before following Braeden into the office. She powers up the computer taking up most of the desk inside the room and slides a burner phone out of her pocket, making a call. 

Stiles’s Farsi isn’t the best, so he misses a lot of the conversation, but he’s not really listening in anyway. Presumably, she’s getting in touch with her contact to seek help with accessing the CCTV network and tracking Jakobsson’s car, while avoiding notice themselves for hacking into the systems.

Ten minutes later, the two of them are staring at a slightly grainy image of a grey Vauxhall Vectra. They watch as Callie, the girl Rocky mentioned, approaches the car. The man stood by it is unmistakeable: Jakobsson. 

Callie looks younger than Stiles had expected, probably only around eighteen, with purple hair chopped roughly around her chin and a torn denim jacket covered in badges and pins. There’s a huge hole in her tights and she’s wearing fingerless gloves. As she gets closer, Jakobsson smiles and wraps his arm around her shoulder in a friendly gesture, squeezing slightly before opening the passenger side door for her. She climbs inside and he shuts the door behind her.

Stiles takes a deep breath, fingers curling in until his nails bite into his palm. He feels sick just watching the footage, seeing the slick, friendly smile on that fucker’s face as he hugs and tricks a young, trusting girl into his car. Knowing what Jakobsson has planned, knowing that he’s going to use her to experiment on, has rage and disgust searing through him, a fierce, roaring fire in his belly. 

“Sick bastard,” he mutters.

Braeden pauses the footage and taps the screen with her index finger. “There.” 

Stiles leans closer, reading the license plate over her shoulder. He watches as she pulls up the tracking network, quickly typing in the Vauxhall’s license plate. From there, it’s easy to get a registered address and current location. 

He raises an eyebrow. “He really isn’t being subtle at all, huh?”

“I’m willing to bet he’s paying the authorities to look the other way,” Braeden replies. “That’s if they’re actually investigating at all. If no one reported this girl missing, they wouldn’t even know about this footage.”

Stiles straightens, crossing his arms over his chest. Energy crackles inside him, an electric kind of adrenaline that singes his nerves; he wants this sick asshole stopped. 

“When do we make our move?”

“Give me time to scope out the building and area,” Braeden says. “But, all going well, tomorrow night.”

He nods and steps back as she gets to her feet. “I’m gonna watch some more. See if I can find more evidence.”

Braeden tilts her head. “Why?”

“The more we’ve got against him, the easier it will be for SHIELD to lock him away.”

“SHIELD,” she repeats evenly.

Stiles blinks slightly. “Well, I…yeah. I mean, once we get the information we need from him, we can contact SHIELD. Leave him and all the evidence against him for them. Why? What were you planning on doing with him?”

“It depends,” she replies. “I figured we’d have to kill him, considering what he’s done.”

Stiles swallows and looks down at his hands, spreading his fingers slightly. “I don’t…kill unless it’s necessary.”

Braeden nods. “Then we call SHIELD in.” She gives his shoulder a brief squeeze and heads out of the room.

He takes a seat at the desk, jiggling the mouse slightly to wake the monitor up. Rain taps against the window, but the office is warm, and he gets comfortable as he starts perusing the footage. He loses track of time, switching between different areas where Jakobsson’s license plate has been regularly seen, speeding up until he sees the car. It’s strange, seeing him in the footage; he looks so weedy, so _harmless_. He just looks completely…human.

But then, so did Arnim Zola.

And so did Daniel Whitehall.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm posting 2 chapters today, so be sure to check out the chapter before this, otherwise this one will be confusing!
> 
> warnings for: imprisonment, torture, human experimentation, mention of death, violence, guns, gunshot wounds, description of injuries and treatment.

The building is short, squat, and ugly, a brick and concrete monstrosity that’s as bleak as the washed out, barren trees around it. There are two small cameras, one on the front of the house, and one above the back door, and the place is armed with a decent home security system.

It’s rural enough to avoid any attention. Jakobsson’s car is parked in the space in front of the building, and a fence borders the property. 

Stiles glances across at Braeden. Maybe it’s wrong, considering just who they’re about to confront, but he feels strangely thrilled, a furnace of adrenaline compacted tightly inside him, ready to be let free. He’s missed this, the planning, the sting of anticipation right before a mission. He’s missed having a purpose. 

“So,” he murmurs, smiling slightly. “See you in ten?”

Braeden winks and he gets to his feet, keeping low in a crouch as he approaches the fence. Scaling it is easy enough and he flips himself over the top so he lands quietly on his feet on the other side, facing the side of the building, away from both cameras. 

He’s close enough to the building now to jam the security system’s signals, supressing the alarms. They don’t know if the cameras are connected to the system or separate, but he doesn’t approach either one; instead, he makes quick work of breaking the lock on one of the windows and climbs through, carefully lowering himself down on the other side. He leaves the window slightly open for Braeden.

The house is quiet and still; he’s stood in a small, modern kitchen. There’s a gun holstered on his thigh and a knife in his boot, and he’s wearing gloves. They’re going to call in SHIELD, but Stiles still doesn’t want to complicate things by leaving his prints everywhere. 

Quietly, he makes his way out into a large, square entryway. A set of spiral stairs extend upwards to the second floor and an archway leads into a large lounge across from Stiles; he bypasses them both, approaching a narrow door tucked behind the stairs instead. 

His task is to find anyone currently locked up and get them out, while Braeden takes down Jakobsson. There’s a padlock on the door, but it’s easy enough to jimmy it with the tools Braeden provided him, and he slowly pulls the door open, wary of any creaks. A set of steps lead down into a cellar and Stiles sighs.

“Always the basement,” he mutters under his breath.

Steeling himself, he descends the steps, using a small pen flashlight to illuminate the space. The stairs open out into a small, square room. A washer and dryer are pressed up against one wall, a huge bookshelf stuffed full of old books and dusty junk shoved up against the other. The rest of the cellar is filled with unused bits and bobs; a broken running machine, an old, boxy TV, a stack of cardboard boxes.

Stiles heads straight for the bookshelf. “So, if I was a crazy, super evil scientist, where would I hide my research?” he murmurs, running a fingertip along the spines of several thick tomes.

There’s a scuff along the floor, cutting a line across the dirty, dusty concrete in a neat arc, the shape worn into the ground over time. Stiles traces it with the toe of his boot, takes a long look at the edges of the bookcase, and lifts his wrist to speak into the comms unit Braeden gave him. 

“You in position, B? ‘Cause I think I’m about to make some noise. It’ll probably wake Jakobsson up.”

“I’m ready,” she confirms. “Watch out for any secondary systems.”

“Got it.”

The shelves are incredibly heavy but, unsurprisingly, all one, connected unit, the books and junk not even wobbling as he curls his fingers around the edge and _pulls_ , heaving as hard as he can. The unit swings outwards, tracing the arc across the floor, and the harsh scrape of wood over concrete and rusted hinges squeaking feels as loud as a gunshot in the silent building. 

Behind the shelves is a door, narrow and metal, with two padlocks, two bolts, and a pad on the wall next to it; it requires a code to open. The keypad is easy enough to get past. He aims the flashlight right over the keys, illuminating the numbers, and in the bright, harsh glare, the ones that are faded are clear to see: 1-3-4. 

It’s a 4-digit pad, so two ones. He starts to mentally map out the different combinations, weighing them up against the likelihood of the system having a three-attempt alarm, but then it hits him. He narrows his eyes at the keypad. It really can’t be that obvious. Jakobsson _can’t_ be that much of a fucking nerd. 

Cautiously, he reaches out and punches in 4 digits: 3-1-4-1.

The screen flashes green. Stiles snorts, shaking his head slightly, and makes quick work of jimmying open the padlocks and tugging the bolts back. He can’t hear anything upstairs, so he assumes Braeden’s got her side of things handled, which is good because the door makes a _fuck_ tonne of noise as he opens it, a metallic screech as it scrapes over the concrete, hinges screaming. 

“Asshole really needs some WD-40 on this,” he says, then checks, “You good, B?”

There’s a pause, long enough for him to worry, before she replies, breathless, “Small complication, but I’ve got it. Carry on.”

Stiles knows she could kick his ass with one arm tied behind her back, so if she’s confident enough to tell him to keep on with his own task, he trusts her. He gazes into a narrow, dark corridor for a moment, wondering just which turn he took in life that’s lead him to staring into creepy, probably haunted, definitely a suitable setting for a horror movie hallways on a regular basis.

Maybe it’s a Hydra thing. They seem to like their bleak, spooky secret bases. Figures an evil scientist who used to work for them developed a liking for it too. 

Squaring his shoulders, he steps forward – and catches his foot on a wire.

Instantly, an alarm blares out. 

“Mother _fucker_.” Stiles grabs his knife from his boot and clenches the flashlight between his teeth, shining the beam over the ground and walls.

The wire is slim and silver, almost invisible, connected to several others placed along the hallway. Stiles grabs and quickly cuts through it, severing the link to both the alarm system and the other trigger wires. His ears ring slightly in the abrupt silence, but he doesn’t pause; going by how breathless Braeden had sounded, they’d already lost their element of surprise, so the blare of the alarm isn’t a huge deal. He just has to focus on getting the innocent people out.

The corridor splits at the end, forking right into an identical, cramped passageway. At the end is a door, bolted and padlocked shut from the outside. This one, at least, doesn’t have a keypad; Stiles guesses that Jakobsson figured no one would get past a bolted door, several trigger wires, or the door in the basement, let alone past the shelving unit. 

Quickly, he pries open the padlock and slams the bolts back, yanking the door open. He finds and flicks on a light switch before stepping through. It leads into a wider space, a squat, square room with a low ceiling. The walls are concrete, but clean, and the ground is tiled and pristine. Clean, fresh air filters in from a vent and a clinical, sharp stench permeates the room; it reminds Stiles of a hospital, all blinding white and sterile. 

Clearly, whatever lack of morals Jakobsson has about human experimentation, he tries to make up for in maintaining a clinical environment for his work. _Creep_.

In the centre of the room is a medical table, more reminiscent of something from a morgue rather than a surgical theater, and directly underneath it, in the floor, is a drain. Padded cuffs are attached to bind ankles, wrists and foreheads to the table and a lamp hangs from the ceiling; pale, harsh light spills down in a huge pool, glinting off the metal table. 

“Holy fuck,” Stiles mutters, a sour taste stinging his throat. 

It’s then that he notices the cages.

They’re little more than glorified cells; tiny recesses in the walls, six of them tucked on opposite sides of the room, blocked off with thick metal bars. They look cramped – no room to stand up in, or lie straight – and cold.

And four of them are occupied.

He feels sick. Jakobsson’s keeping these people in goddamn _cages_. And, horrifically, he’s made sure that they can see out through the bars; that they can see what happens to someone on that table, knowing they’re next in line. 

Jakobsson isn’t just a depraved asshole. He’s a fucking _monster_.

“I’ve got them,” he says into the comms, quickly crossing the room to crouch in front of the closest cage.

The man inside it shrinks back, hunkering against the wall, and Stiles tucks his flashlight and knife away, lifting his hands to show he doesn’t mean any harm.

“Hey,” he says. “I’m not Jakobsson. It’s okay.”

He doesn’t relax; if anything, he shies back even further, face pressed against the concrete in his effort to put as much space between himself and the bars as possible. 

“Not again,” he croaks. “Please. Tell him I can’t.”

Stiles stops, the world freezing for a brief, vicious moment before reorienting itself. Jakobsson isn’t working alone. That’s probably what Braeden meant by ‘complication’, but he can’t concern himself with it now. He has to focus on one thing at a time, even as horrified disgust roars through him at the sight and smell of this damn room.

“I’m not working with him,” Stiles says. “I came here to get you all out. I’m…” he pauses, hesitating for a second before going with, “I’m with SHIELD.”

At that, the man lifts his head, gaze flicking frantically over Stiles’s shoulder before zeroing in on his face, and Stiles feels a brief, cool crackle of relief when he recognizes him.

“Bill. It is Bill, right?” he asks. 

Bill leans forward cautiously. “You know me?”

“Yeah. Yeah, we came to get you out. Your buddy, Rocky? He helped us figure out where you are.”

“Rocky?” Bill repeats. “Goddamn. Please, you gotta get me out.”

Stiles forces open the padlock on the bolt and slams it back, opening the door. Bill crawls out and staggers to his feet, catching himself against the wall as he struggles to stay upright after being trapped in such a small space for so long. He looks thin, almost gaunt, and ashen, with dark circles under his eyes. There’s a raw, open cut on his jaw and he leans slightly to the right, hand pressed over his side; rib injury. 

“Wait here,” Stiles says.

Bill glances at the door, the desperation to get out, to _really_ be free clear and painful on his face, but he listens, and stays put as Stiles moves on to the next cage. He doesn’t recognize the woman inside and neither does Bill; she doesn’t speak, but she takes Stiles’s hands as he helps her up and trembles as silent tears streak down her face. Stiles carefully hands her over to Bill so he can open up the next cell. Inside is a guy in his twenties, pale and skinny, with knotted, greasy brown hair and watery blue eyes. He grips Stiles’s biceps with surprising strength as he gets to his feet. Faint track marks dot his arms. 

“Fuck, thank you, man,” he whispers, voice like gravel and rusty from disuse. “Thank you so fucking much.”

The fourth cage contains a young girl, but it’s not Callie. Stiles closes his eyes, just for a second, allows himself a moment of grief and bleak anger at the thought of _why_ she isn’t here, of where she’s likely to be buried now, along with all of Jakobsson’s other ‘failed experiments’. 

Gritting his teeth, he crouches and moves to force open the padlock, but the girl inside draws back, lifting her hands slightly.

“Don’t!” 

Stiles pauses, looking up at her. “It’s okay. I’m not here to hurt you. I’m gonna get you out, okay? I promise -.”

“You can’t let me out,” she cries. “I can’t – I can’t -.” 

Realization snaps over him. “He was successful,” he murmurs. “His serum. It worked on you. You’re gifted.”

She nods shakily, brown eyes wide and terrified. She’s trembling, nails bitten down almost to the wick, thumbs torn with ragged, bloody hangnails, and she looks so _young_ , barely eighteen. Her blonde hair is dirty and clinging to her skull, matted down to her shoulders. 

“Okay,” he says softly, getting back to his feet. He digs a set of keys out his pocket, holding them out to Bill. “When you leave this room, there’s a corridor. Turn left and it’ll lead you into a basement. Go straight up the stairs and out of the house. Half a mile away, there’s a van, small, black, unmarked, pulled over on a dirt road. You have a choice. If you want, you can get in it and drive away. We’ll leave you alone. But if you’re comfortable with it, we’d like you to stay. SHIELD will be here once we’re done with Jakobsson. They’ll want your accounts of what he did to you, so they can make sure he goes away for a lifetime.”

For a moment, Bill just looks at him, then nods once. He snatches the keys from Stiles’s palm and helps the woman as the two of them and the young guy leave, disappearing down the corridor. Stiles turns back to the girl, sitting down cross legged just an inch away from the bars.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs.

Her gaze flicks to the door. “You should go.”

Stiles shakes his head. “I’m not going anywhere. Not without you. I’m gonna open these bars, okay? So we can talk.” 

She shakes her head quickly. “Don’t.”

He pauses. “What’s your name?” he asks softly. When she hesitates, he offers, “I’m Stiles.”

“Stiles?” she repeats, a touch of dry dubiousness entering her tone, and he grins.

“Yep. That’s me. I mean, my real name is Mieczyslaw, but I don’t really tell _anyone_ that, so we’re gonna keep that a secret between us, okay?”

“Sure. I can see why you go by ‘Stiles’.”

A surprised laugh escapes him. “Yeah, thanks. So, what can I call you?”

“Lori. I’m – my name’s Lori.”

“Lori,” he murmurs, nodding slightly. “Well, I’m gonna take a wild guess here, but if your power is strong enough to take me out if I open the door…surely it’s powerful enough to take me out _regardless_ of the door? I mean, it’s just bars. You could reach through it to get to me. Look.” Stiles nudges his hand through the bars slowly. “So, I think it’s safe to open the door. What do you say?”

Lori swallows, fear lining her face, but she nods. “Okay,” she whispers.

Stiles breaks the lock as quietly as he can, not wanting to alarm her, and then pulls the bars open. Without it between them, they’re sat face to face, just a foot or so of floor between them. Lori scrubs her palms over her jeans, tense but no longer shaking, at least.

“How old are you, Lori?” Stiles asks gently. “When were you taken?”

“Eighteen,” she says hoarsely. “Or – or maybe nineteen, now, I guess? I-I don’t know how long I’ve been here. I tried to count the days, but…it’s impossible to tell here. The doctor never told us. I – it was just after Christmas when he brought me here.”

_Christmas_. Holy fuck. She’s been here for almost a year. No wonder she’s so thin, cheekbones too prominent and her skin pale from lack of sunlight. Scars, some old and some newer, litter her exposed flesh. Stiles doesn’t want to think about whether they’re from the experiments or from other inclinations Jakobsson might have. 

“Can you tell me what happened?” he prompts cautiously. 

“After I turned eighteen, my foster mom, she kicked me out. So I came here. I thought – I thought I could maybe find some of my biological family, maybe find work and an apartment. But that didn’t exactly work out. The doctor approached me while I was looking for vacancies, said he might have a job for me. He was nice at first. He gave me food, he offered me work, I thought…I thought I’d landed on my feet. But then he brought me here.”

Stiles reaches out slowly, giving her time to register the movement so it doesn’t startle her. He rests his hand on the floor between them and leaves it there, allowing her the choice of whether she wants the contact or not.

“And the serum?” he murmurs. “It worked on you?”

Lori nods. “The first time. He – he said that I was the only subject it worked on so quickly. He was so happy, I thought maybe he’d let me go, but…he kept me here. He wanted to find out _why_ it worked on me. So he…” she pauses, rubs at a brutal scar on her arm. “He experimented some more. He thought maybe it had something to do with psychological strength.”

“It’s okay,” he says gently. “He’s not gonna hurt you or anyone else ever again, okay? SHIELD will make sure of that. You’re free now, Lori.”

She shakes her head. “You don’t understand. I can’t…I can’t _control_ it.”

“Lori,” he murmurs. “You’re controlling it right _now_. Why do you think you can control it in the cage, but nowhere else?” He pauses, adds, carefully, “I’m guessing he conditioned you to think that way. To see the cage as a ‘safe place’, the only place you’re in control. And anything outside of it is dangerous because you might lose control, and that terrifies you. It’s the only way he could keep you contained.” When she doesn’t answer, he tries, “Tell me about your power, Lori.”

“I don’t understand it,” she whispers. “It just _happens_. The first time, I was so upset, and it just…it _burned_ inside me, and then it was burning _out_ of me. There was – there was so much fire and I couldn’t stop it.” Fresh tears spill down her cheeks, brown eyes wide as they stare at him, raw and pleading. “I killed someone. The person in the next cage. I burned him and I couldn’t stop it, I tried, I swear, I tried, but I couldn’t _stop_. The doctor had to knock me out.” 

Stiles reaches his other hand out, resting it on the floor next to his other. After a second, Lori reaches out, her fingers trembling as she rests them on top of Stiles’s. He holds still, lets her initiate the contact and control it, but when she grabs hold of his hands properly and clings on tightly, he gives a gentle squeeze.

“It’s okay,” he soothes. “It’s okay, Lori. It wasn’t your fault.”

“I _killed_ him.”

“Jakobsson did this. All of this. What happened isn’t your fault. That blood? Is on _his_ hands, not yours.” Stiles squeezes again, lightly, but accentuating his point. “It’s okay, Lori. It’s over. It’ll be okay now.”

“But what if I hurt more people?” Lori glances behind Stiles. “What if I hurt _you_ , if I lose control?”

“Then that’s a risk I’m willing to take,” he replies evenly. When she opens her mouth, he shakes his head. “I’m serious. I’m not leaving here without you, Lori. And if something happens, then, I’m okay with that. I’m taking that risk on board. So it’s on _me_ , not you, okay?” He taps her knuckles gently with his thumbs. “Do you know me?”

Her gaze searches his face. “I’ve seen you on TV. You’re dating Captain America.”

“I was. A…a lot of stuff has happened since then.” Stiles swallows, struck by the fact that this girl doesn’t know what he’s done, that she never saw it on the news, because she’s been trapped here, tortured and abused for ‘science’. “But yeah. I was with him. And I was around superpowered people a lot. I was also with SHIELD. So I know about powers, okay? I can help you.”

“You can?” 

“And so can SHIELD. You’ve heard of Inhumans, right? Well, a lot of them struggle to control their gift too, at first. It takes time. But you can do it. SHIELD will help you. They have Inhumans on their team, agents who are trained to help you. I promise you, Lori, you’ll be okay. You’re free and you’re not alone. It’s gonna be okay.” Stiles squeezes her fingers again. “I trust you, Lori. Can you trust me?”

“Yes.”

There’s no hesitation there, no doubt, and it breaks Stiles open, exposes his raw, dying heart, even as it fixes something inside of him, starts to heal and soothe a world of hurt and grief. One word, from a stranger, and it changes everything, completely reshapes his world. Something clicks into place, bringing so much relief with it that he almost cries.

Stiles carefully gets to his feet, keeping a light hold on her hands. For a moment, she stays frozen, fear slicing across her expression, but then her gaze hardens and she takes a deep breath, tightening her grip on his hands as she climbs to her feet. She stumbles slightly and then throws herself at him, wrapping her arms around him. Despite how slight she is, despite her weakness, she squeezes him so tight that, for a second, he can hardly breathe.

“It’s okay,” he says softly. “It’s okay now, I promise. You’re safe, Lori.”

She clings to him and sobs, tears soaking into his neck and jacket, and he holds on, lets her get it all out. She cries and cries until she’s shaking and gasping for air, but when she pulls back, there’s a light in her eyes that hadn’t been there before. 

“We’re gonna head for the door,” Stiles murmurs. “One step at a time, okay? Deep breaths. Focus on your feet, or on my hand, just keep breathing and block everything else out. If you feel like you’re going to lose control, squeeze my hand. We’ll be okay. I promise.”

She nods once, expression hard with unwavering strength, and holds on to his hand as they leave the room. As they cross the threshold, Stiles can feel her tense, but a second later, it seems to just drain out of her. She’s free and she knows it, a slight tremor rippling through her. They have to walk single file in the narrow corridor, so Stiles lets her walk ahead of him, sensing she needs to feel like her back is being watched. 

They carry on until they step out of the house. Lori doesn’t falter once, doesn’t lose any of her determination or focus, and Stiles offers her a small smile.

“See? You’ve totally got it handled.” He bumps his shoulder gently against hers. “That asshole hasn’t got any power over you anymore, Lori. You’re in control now.”

She swallows, lip wobbling slightly, but she manages a small smile. Stiles pulls a small tracking device out of his phone and, to his surprise, sees that the van is still parked up where he and Braeden had left it. Bill and the two other prisoners have decided to stay to speak to SHIELD.

“Okay,” Stiles says. “I need to go help my friend. The others are still here, they’re safe in the van I mentioned. Will you be okay with them?”

Lori hesitates, but then nods. “Yeah,” she manages, then, stronger, “Yes. I can handle it.”

“We’ll be there soon,” he promises, holding out the device so she can find the van on her own.

He watches her walk away, keeping an eye on her until she disappears, but he knows she’ll be okay. She’s strong. 

Unnervingly, he wonders if maybe Jakobsson was right, if that kind of strength is what tipped the knife on whether someone would survive the serum or not. He shakes that thought away, a chill creeping down his spine, and turns, heading back into the house.

“B?” he says into the comms.

“Upstairs,” she replies. “First door on the right. Don’t mind the bodies.”

“The _bodies_?” he repeats. “You know what, I’m just gonna pretend that it was a kill-or-be-kill situation. If you feel the need to correct me, please don’t.”

“They’re not _dead_. Yet.”

“Well, that’s reassuring.” 

He takes the stairs two at a time, pausing on the landing. Three men are on the floor, tied up and, thankfully, gagged, so Stiles gets little more than some furious glares as he steps over them on his way to the door. 

It’s slightly ajar. He pushes it the rest of the way open, pausing at the scene inside. There’s a middle aged man on the bed, dressed in navy silk pyjamas, blood trickling from an obviously broken nose. Across from him, Braeden sits on a chair, arms looped over the back, a gun secure in one hand as she gazes at him. Her expression is cool, disgust clear in her eyes. 

“Well, I see you’ve got this handled,” Stiles remarks.

Braeden tips her head slightly towards him without looking away from the man. “Everyone out?”

“Yeah. They’re safe. So, uh, who’s the dude getting blood all over those fancy ass sheets?”

“Haven’t got his name yet,” she replies. “Mostly, he’s just been cussing at me.” 

“Go to hell,” the man spits. 

“Well, that’s original,” Braeden says cheerfully. “You gonna talk yet?” 

He doesn’t reply, just stares at her, fury seared on his face. It doesn’t quite mask the fear in his blue eyes, however. Stiles tucks his hands in his pockets and glances at the alarm clock on the nightstand, checking the time.

“What’s your name?” he asks. When he gets nothing more than a ‘fuck you’, he switches track. “Okay, then. How about you tell me where Jakobsson is?”

The man _actually_ spits this time, a disgusting glob of saliva and blood splattering onto the floor. Braeden gives it an unimpressed look and shrugs, getting to her feet.

“We’re wasting our time here,” she tells Stiles. “We should clean up and go.” She lifts the gun as she says it, aiming with brutal accuracy at the man’s head.

Stiles doesn’t think she has any intention of pulling the trigger, but the threat works; the man’s indignant fury is gone an instant, replaced by desperate fear. He scrambles back on the bed, lifting his hands slightly.

“Wait, wait,” he shouts. “I’ll talk!”

Braeden raises an eyebrow and gives a slight ‘go on then’ motion with the gun. 

“I work with Jakobsson,” he says quickly, gaze darting between her and Stiles. 

“Work as in…?”

“He brought me in on his project,” he clarifies. “We’re trying to find a link between physical pain and control over enhanced powers.”

“So you help him torture and experiment on people,” Stiles says flatly. 

“It isn’t…this is _why_ we have to do it this way. Society is too narrow minded. This is science. Just think of the applications of our work! Military, medicine, security, there is so much this will benefit. The unpleasant things we do now are for a better future for everyone.”

“Wow, great slogan. Is that how you’re gonna sell it to the judge and jury?” Stiles bites out. “Or is that what you tell yourself to get to sleep at night?”

He shakes his head, jaw working for a moment. “You don’t understand.”

“I do. I understand that you’re one sick puppy, buddy. What’s your name?”

“Wilson,” he mutters. “Geoffrey Wilson.”

“Where is Jakobsson, Geoffrey?” Braeden asks.

“I don’t know.” At their twin roll of the eyes, he adds, wildly, “I don’t! Elias goes away sometimes. I don’t know where or what he does, but he says it helps with his research.”

Stiles pulls a face. “Well, that sounds shady as fuck.”

Braeden glances at him, then looks back at Wilson. “When will he be back?” 

“I don’t _know_ ,” he insists. “Fuck. Look, he comes and goes all the time. I don’t keep track of him. He left some hired security here, but he didn’t say why. That’s it. That’s all I know.”

Stiles looks back at the door, thinking of the tied up men sprawled behind it. “Jakobsson suspected something was gonna happen,” he says, meeting Braeden’s gaze. “Do you think Deucalion warned him we might try and come after him?”

“I don’t know,” she replies, frowning slightly. “I don’t think so. Maybe its Deucalion he’s afraid of; it makes sense he’d want to get rid of Jakobsson before he became a risk.” 

“Maybe,” Stiles allows. “He knew something was up, either way.” 

She nods. “Okay,” she mutters, turning back to Wilson. “What do you know about Deucalion?”

His face twists with genuine confusion. “Who the fuck is Deucalion?”

“Brilliant,” she remarks. 

“We got the people out,” Stiles points out. “They’re safe. This asshole will be taken in by SHIELD. That’s still a win. We’ll carry on tracking Jakobsson. We’ll find him and we’ll find Deucalion.”

She exhales slowly and holsters her gun. “Keep him secure,” she says. “I’m gonna search the place, see if I can find anything useful. Be ready to head out in twenty.”

Stiles nods and steps aside so she can slip out of the room. He paces the room for a minute before moving to stand by the window. Wilson doesn’t move from the bed, just gazes at Stiles warily, and he doesn’t speak. He’s trying to hide his fear, but it’s clear on his face, in the way he’s holding himself. He has no idea what to do in a situation like this, so he’s staying still and silent. 

The prisoners are free. They’ll be safe. Because of them, Lori will get help and support in learning to understand and control her power. Because of them, one monster will be going to jail, and any research in the building will be contained. Because of them, so many people won’t be harmed now. 

Stiles wonders if he should feel more upset that Jakobsson isn’t here, that they haven’t found him and can’t get any information on Deucalion from him. After this, once he discovers the house has been raided, it’s likely he’ll ghost, which will make finding him again incredibly difficult. It also means that Deucalion will likely know they’re getting closer to him, which eliminates any advantage they might have.

But…they’d _saved_ people. Four people are free because of them. Possibly, Jakobsson won’t return to his project, knowing that people are looking for him now because of it. They’ve potentially saved dozens of lives. So he can’t bring himself to be angry or disappointed. Frustrated, sure, a little bit; he wants to bring Deucalion down and he definitely wants to make sure Jakobsson faces justice. But he can’t think about Lori, Bill and the others and feel anything other than relieved. Maybe that wasn’t their initial mission, but it had been a success all the same.

A scuffle outside the door drags his attention away from the window. He checks the alarm clock; Braeden will be back any second. He takes a step forwards, wondering if she’s found anything that might help them track down Jakobsson or Deucalion.

The door bursts open, flying into the wall with a loud _bang_ , and there’s a split second for Stiles to see a broad shouldered man barrelling into the room and reach for the firearm in his holster before a gunshot cracks the air between them, loud enough to make his ears ring slightly.

Pain slams into him. 

It feels like he’s been punched; he staggers back a step, the world around him fracturing from shock, and he barely registers the sound of a body hitting the carpet several feet away from him. Agony sears through his leg and he crumples, back crashing into the wall. He sags to the floor, automatically reaching for his thigh. 

It feels like hot metal being pressed into his leg, like someone’s holding a blow torch to his skin with brutal, unrelenting cruelty. He grits his teeth and only realizes that he’s squeezing his eyes shut when he feels a hand on his shoulder; he jerks back, a sharp shout escaping him as pain spikes through his leg.

“It’s me,” Braeden says quickly. “It’s just me. Hey, Stiles, look at me. _Look at me_ , Stiles.”

He pries his eyelids open, focusing on her face. Wilson’s gone – presumably, he’d used the distraction to make a run for it – and the man who’d rushed the room is on the floor, unconscious and bleeding from a blow to his head. Braeden presses her hands over the wound in Stiles’s leg.

“It’s okay,” she reassures him. “It didn’t nick the artery. I think the bullet just skimmed you. You’re gonna be fine, Stiles. Just don’t go into shock on me, okay?”

“I’ve been grazed by a bullet before,” he grits out. “This hurts a hell of a lot more.”

“It’s a little deeper than your last one, I’m guessing,” she says softly. “Just relax. I’m gonna get you sorted and we can get out of here, okay? Try and stay calm.”

He almost mutters something snarky, but he’s starting to feel lightheaded. He feels hot all over, sweat prickling his skin, and he closes his eyes, leaning his head back against the floor. Braeden grabs his hands, urging him to keep pressure on his thigh, and he can feel his own blood, hot and slick, sticking between his fingers.

Braeden rips some of the bedsheet to make a tourniquet, securing it with swift efficiency. It hurts, but Stiles clenches his jaw and bears it, focusing on trying to stay conscious. He knows Braeden’s right; the wound isn’t life threatening, but shock definitely is, and he can feel it splintering through him. 

She disappears, returning with a home first aid kit, and wraps a bandage quickly around his thigh so nothing nasty will get into the wound. Then, carefully, she helps him up, slinging her arm around his waist to support him.

“Wilson?” he manages.

“SHIELD will find him,” she replies. “Don’t worry.” She carefully steps forward and he winces. “I know, it hurts. Sorry; one of those assholes managed to get free of my ties.” 

“Not your fault,” he grunts. “We should call SHIELD.”

“I contacted local authorities. They’re already on their way. We need to get out of here.”

The process is slow going and incredibly painful, but they make it downstairs and out of the house. Braeden carefully lowers him to sit on the front steps before sprinting away to get the van. Stiles tips slightly to lean again the wall, looking down. He feels hazy and sluggish, his vision a little blurry, and he blinks at the blood soaking through the bandage on his leg. 

He feels sick and dizzy, but he focuses on breathing, slow and even. SHIELD had given him training on this, taught him how to keep functioning despite severe pain, and he tries to concentrate on that instead of the searing agony in his thigh. It feels like forever before the headlights spear through the trees and the van jerks to a stop a few feet away from him.

Bill, Lori and the two other prisoners climb out and Braeden moves to help Stiles up. She supports him as he hobbles to the van, grunting as he half collapses into the seat. Braeden closes the door and talks to Lori for a couple of minutes before climbing into the driver’s side.

“Authorities are five minutes out,” she says. “They’ll be fine. They want to stay to tell them what Jakobsson did. But we need to disappear.”

Stiles nods, pressing his forehead against the cool window. The vibration of the engine hurts his leg and Braeden has to drive fast to avoid crossing paths with the cop cars, but once they’re safe, she slows down and takes it easier on bumps and potholes. 

He must lose time, because it feels like between one blink and the next, they’re back at the safehouse. Braeden swings the van into the garage and helps him into the house, sitting him down on the couch. 

“Pretty sure getting blood in a CIA safehouse is a bad idea,” he mumbles.

“I’ll fix it,” she assures him. “Hold on. I’ll be back in a second.”

Stiles manages to shift his hand slightly, giving a vague wave of acknowledgement, and closes his eyes, slouching back into the couch. Her boots thud on the wood floors as she walks away, and announce her arrival when she returns. 

“I’m gonna give you some pain relief,” she says. “And then clean it up. Drink some water, there’s a bottle right next to you.”

He opens one eye to find the bottle and picks it up, taking a long gulp. Extending his other arm, he watches as Braeden prepares the needle of morphine, barely registering the sting as she injects him. It kicks in fast; his body goes weak, feeling heavy and weighed down, and dizziness spins inside his skull, but the relief from the worst of the pain is bliss. 

Braeden cuts away his pant leg and cleans and rinses the wound, examining it before sitting back.

“It’s dug a furrow in your thigh,” she murmurs. “Torn skin and some muscle, but nothing major. You’ll be okay.”

“Gnarly scar, though?” he guesses. “Sweet. Lends to my barfight story.”

She huffs a quiet breath of laughter, shaking her head, and carefully threads a surgical needle. He can’t watch as she carefully stitches up the layers of muscle and flesh; he feels sick enough as it is, and even the morphine doesn’t take the edge off the pain of each tug and pull. Finally, it’s done, and she places a dressing on to finish before sitting back on her heels.

“It didn’t hit any nerves,” she says. “You’re lucky. Might have a small divot where the muscle was slightly chewed up, though.”

He manages a tired smile. “I can live with that. Thanks.”

Braeden straightens to her feet. “Come on. You need rest and I need to fix this couch.”

The trip up the stairs isn’t devastatingly painful thanks to the morphine, but he’s exhausted and out of it enough that he keeps stumbling, feet catching on the steps. Braeden stays with him, supporting him, and helps him into his room, making sure he doesn’t just collapse on the bed and fuck his leg up more.

Stiles manages to remove his boots and peel off the rest of his ruined pants; Braeden helps him with his jacket, leaving him in his shirt and boxers. He lies down carefully and watches her head for the door.

He’s out before she even reaches for the handle.

***

He wakes with a groan.

His leg hurts like hell and he feels exhausted and fuzzy from the pain relief. Swallowing, he winces at his dry throat and gummy tongue, running it over his teeth as he tries to roll over. 

It takes him a good half minute to realize he’s not alone. He jolts when he sees Braeden sat in the armchair by the bed, distracted by a book in her lap, but she does glance up when he hisses in a sharp, pained breath. 

“Easy,” she advises. “You’re gonna want to be careful on that leg.”

“Yeah,” he grunts. “Hurts like fuck.”

“Try getting _really_ shot,” she replies, grinning slightly. “Then we’ll see how tough you are.”

“Not tough. Not tough at all. I would happily swap this pain for a nice, hot bubble bath and some hot cocoa or some shit, I don’t care.”

Braeden laughs and sets her book aside. She grabs a glass of water and some tablets from the nightstand, holding them out until he sits up and takes them. He gulps the pills down, drinking half the water in one go.

“Pain relief and antibiotics,” she explains. “I got you the course you’ll need. I also got you some antibiotic cream to use.”

“Huh. I hadn’t even thought of that. Thanks.”

“I also safely ditched the van, fixed the couch, and scrubbed away any trace of blood from the whole house.” 

Stiles blinks. “Was I out for a super long time, or are you just scarily efficient?”

She smiles. “Both.”

“Wilson? Lori and the others?”

“I got in contact with my old friend, they told me what I needed to know. Wilson was found and arrested pretty quickly. SHIELD’s taken over the investigation and the hunt for Jakobsson. Lori and the others are all safe.” 

He exhales slowly, relieved. “Good. That’s good.”

Braeden nods. She’s quiet for a few moments, just gazing at him, expression thoughtful. Sighing, she leans forward, forearms resting on her knees.

“I’m going to go after Jakobsson,” she says. “And I’m going to keep tracking down Deucalion.”

“I know,” Stiles replies quietly.

“So, I have one question for you. Do you want to die?”

The answer is both harder and easier this time. Harder because, as much as he’d meant it last time, he hadn’t acknowledged just what he was running towards, desperate in a need for purpose, for _revenge_ and for atonement. But now, with a bullet wound in his thigh and the realization of what he’d done last night, that he’d _saved_ people, he realizes what he’d been chasing after all along. He was ready to follow Braeden right into the jaws of death in his effort to find Deucalion.

And now he knows how much he really _does_ mean it. Something’s changed inside him, snapped back into place, and he knows what he needs to do. It makes his answer so much easier, and he holds her gaze as he says it.

“No.”

Braeden smiles. It’s a little sad and a little lonely, but it’s approving. She pats his hand once and sits back, nodding slightly.

“Good.”

***

Braeden scrubs the house of their prints, removing any trace that they’d been there at all. 

She hires a rental car and drops him off at a motel near the bus station. Stiles doesn’t know where she’s going next and he doesn’t ask. He doesn’t tell her what he plans to do, but he suspects she already knows; after all, she’d anticipated his answer to her question. 

They don’t talk about meeting up again; they’re both aware that it’s unlikely they’ll ever see each other again. Instead, they swap a brief hug before Braeden drives off, gone in a matter of seconds.

He’s alone again.

The room he rents is small, cheap and kinda scummy, but he isn’t planning on staying for long. Just for a night to rest before catching the first bus of several on what will be a long trip, but he doesn’t mind the length of the journey or the discomfort of bus travel with a wounded leg. 

He sleeps like the dead, waking up early the next morning, before dawn. Swallowing his antibiotics, he checks on his wound before changing into fresh, clean clothes. He slips his grooming kit out of his backpack and gazes at his reflection in the grimy mirror above the motel sink for a moment. Then, he grabs the scissors.

It takes a while to cut his hair, trimming it back from its longer style to how he’d worn it before, before he left New York, before he joined Julia. It’s not perfect – he’ll need to see a barber for that – but it’s close enough. He shaves his beard off completely and splashes cool water over his face before straightening, looking at his reflection.

Clean shaven and with his hair shorter, he looks different, but better. This face is more familiar to him than the one he’s seen in the mirror for over half a year.

Stepping back from the mirror, Stiles gathers his things and leaves the motel room, limping carefully towards the bus station. It’s cold, the sharpness of it making his thigh throb, but the bus is warm when he boards it, finding a seat towards the back. He settles into it and leans back, closing his eyes.

It’s time to go home.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings in this chapter for: graphic violence, injury mention, weapons, guns, gore, blood, graphic injuries, and mention of brainwashing.

With a hydraulic hiss, the bus jerks to a stop, lurching slightly before settling again. 

Stiles doesn’t open his eyes, but he does allow himself a small, wry smile; yeah, they’re definitely in New York. He’s actually missed the nightmare traffic. He keeps his head leaned against the window; it’s cold and a little damp, and the bus’s heater is broken, rattling away but not spewing out any hot air, but he doesn’t mind. 

It’s familiar in a way that’s oddly comforting; a visceral, bone deep kind of discomfort that is so unpleasant that it feels good, filling him with nostalgia, with a sense of being home. 

Unlike the sleek, new buses that he’d boarded for the biggest leg of his journey, this one is old and grumpy, but he likes that. He prefers the loud snarl of the engine, the way it vibrates through the Flotex floor and threadbare chairs. With his body pressed against the wall, he can feel that rumble crackle through his skull and teeth, needling at his shoulder and arm. 

He doesn’t sleep; he _can’t_ sleep, not in a confined space, surrounded by strangers. Between changing buses, he’s spent a night here or there in a motel to get a few hours of rest, or managed quick power naps in a quiet, discreet corner of a station. But he’s tired, physically and emotionally, and his leg goddamn _hurts_. He’s ready for his journey to be over.

When twenty minutes pass and they still haven’t moved a single inch, Stiles opens his eyes and sits up slightly. It’s early afternoon and it’s snowing slightly, little frenetic flurries of tiny flakes swirling around outside the bus window, but it’s definitely not heavy enough to disrupt traffic _this_ much. Vehicles are lined up bumper to bumper across the lanes, but no one is moving anywhere, despite the numerous impatient honks or angry shouts ringing out.

The guy across from Stiles – the one who has spent the entire journey furiously typing away on his laptop – gets to his feet, moving towards the driver’s seat. Since he hadn’t managed to grab a back seat, Stiles is only a couple of rows away from the front and he watches as the guy leans one elbow on the driver’s seat, ignoring the annoyed look he receives as he peers out of the huge windshield. 

“Hey, man,” he says. “What’s the hold up?”

“I know as much as you, pal,” the driver replies. “City’s goddamn gridlocked.”

Another passenger – one of a group of four tourists – makes a quip about New York traffic, and there’s a couple of polite chuckles and more than a few eyerolls. Stiles presses closer to the window, until his nose is almost touching the glass, scanning the buildings around them. In the distance, there’s a brief flash as lightning fractures the heavy clouds.

Stiles sighs.

“What is that?” the woman behind him asks her husband. “A thunderstorm _and_ snow?”

He gives a non-committal hum. “Could be.”

“Are we safe, stuck here?” she persists, tension tightening her voice.

“Safer than out there,” he replies reasonably. “Did you pack those sandwiches?”

“ _David_ ,” she insists, her voice rising higher.

Stiles pushes up to his feet slightly, resting one arm on the back of his chair as he twists to face them. “It’s not a thunderstorm,” he says. “And you’re safe here. Trust me.”

He slides out into the aisle and stretches up to retrieve his travel backpack from the shelf above the seats. The teenager sat a couple of rows down taps away at his phone, then lifts it up slightly, triumphant.

“City and traffic has been shut down for _miles_ ,” he declares. “Something’s going down in Midtown Manhattan. SHIELD’s evacuating it and has issued an alert for everyone outside the area to stay put. Traffic isn’t allowed anywhere close to it.” 

There’s a collective sigh. The driver kills the engine and grabs a newspaper from the dashboard, getting settled as he opens it. The mother towards the back of the bus sets up some cartoons on her toddler’s iPad, a couple of travellers unpack food from their backpacks, and a man uses his coat to make a pillow so he can take a nap. 

Stiles shrugs the strap of his backpack over his shoulder and makes his way to the front of the bus. The driver doesn’t even glance up from his newspaper.

“We’re not going anywhere for a while, kid,” he says.

“I need you to let me off the bus,” Stiles replies.

The driver gives an annoyed grunt. “Didn’t you listen? City’s been shut down. You’re not gonna catch a cab, pal, and it’ll be chaos trying to find a hotel or store that isn’t packed full of pedestrians taking shelter from the snow. Just take a seat.” 

Stiles shakes his head. “I’m not looking for a cab or shelter. Can you do me a favour and open the doors?”

The newspaper hits the dashboard with a _slap_. The driver waves his hands around at the gridlocked traffic and dark clouds above. “What is your problem, pal? It’s shit out there.”

“Look, I’m Agent Stilinski of SHIELD, please just -.”

His expression goes tight, blue eyes filling with ice as he looks closer at Stiles’s face. “Oh, I know who you are. Heard you’re not an agent anymore.”

_Great_ , Stiles thinks. He sighs. “I’m guessing you don’t like me.”

“What you did -.”

“Okay.” Stiles leans down slightly so their faces are level. “Look at me. Look _real_ close at my face, so you can see just how many fucks I don’t give about what you think of me. Open the doors.”

“Come on, man,” the teen calls from behind them. “He can help. Let him off.”

The driver flicks the switch and the doors open with a low hiss. “Get the fuck off my bus.”

Stiles gives a snappy, sarcastic salute in response and limps down the steps. The doors snap shut behind him, puffing a burst of air across the back of his neck. It’s fucking _freezing_ , the wind sharp and cold enough to feel cutting, and little flakes of snow flick into his face, melting on his skin. 

Zipping his jacket up tighter, Stiles squeezes through a gap between a cab and a truck so he can reach the sidewalk. A few people have braved the cold weather to watch the skies, trying to get a glimpse of what’s going on. Others have taken shelter inside buildings, but Stiles can see them through panels of glass, glued to their phones as they search for updates or footage of the Avengers.

Others – the more seasoned of New York natives, who’s excitement over superheroes has been lost to the regularity of it – have settled in for the wait, disgruntled but resigned to the city being brought to a standstill yet again.

Stiles approaches a guy straddling a prone motorcycle; he’s peeled off his gloves so he can use his cell phone.

“Hey, buddy,” he says. “Got any news on where the main action is?”

“Apparently there’s some shit going down near the Rockefeller Center, but the whole of Midtown has been evacuated.” He shrugs slightly. “Could be a while.”

Stiles blows out a breath, looking down the block. He’s a couple of miles out. Normally, he’d just run it, but with his leg, he’s got no chance, and both the roads and public transit have been shut down. He eyes the buildings, trying to figure out what his best option is.

“Wait,” the biker says, looking at Stiles now. “I know you.” 

“Yeah,” Stiles replies, absent-minded. 

“You wanna get closer? I can give you a ride.”

He blinks, looking back at him. “You think you can get through?” he asks dubiously.

“Hell yeah, I can,” he says with a grin. “I can probably get you right up to the blockade.”

Stiles claps him on the shoulder. “That would be awesome.”

Climbing onto the back of the bike sends a throb of pain through his thigh, but once he’s settled, it isn’t too bad. There’s no spare helmet and he isn’t wearing any other protective gear, or even _gloves_ at a minimum, and the thought of coming off the bike is definitely unsettling; sure, he’s gone after the likes of Aiden Steiner without back up, but being scraped into jam across the road? Infinitely more horrifying. 

But it definitely beats walking.

Five minutes into the ride, Stiles starts to suspect that the dude has been waiting for an opportunity like this; he’s _insane_ , speeding until the bike is roaring, taking sharp turns and slight risks in order to squeeze past the gridlocked traffic or get past an indignant driver trying to stop their progress. He slices through alleys and little shortcuts that even Stiles is unaware of, doing whatever it takes to get closer to Midtown, and he keeps giving wild, breathless laughter. Stiles just holds on to the pillion grips until his knuckles ache, his heart thundering his chest.

Eventually, they see the blockade up ahead. The cars right at the front are packed tightly together, a few of the drivers shouting angrily at the cops and poor SHIELD agents assigned to keep people from trying to get through, and the bike slows to a stop, unable to get through a narrow gap between two taxis. 

Stiles carefully climbs off, feeling a little shaky from adrenaline, his face stinging from the cold wind and snow. He stumbles slightly, catching himself against a minivan. The biker flips his visor up, offering a big grin.

“You good from here, man?” 

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “Seriously, thank you.”

He offers his fist for a bump and Stiles laughs slightly, tapping his own knuckles against the reinforced gloves. The biker gives him another grin and manoeuvres his bike until he can turn it to ride away again.

Stiles eyes the blockade for a moment before approaching it. Despite his leg, he walks purposefully, shoulders squared as he gets closer to the vans parked sideways to form a barrier. When he starts to duck under the tape, however, a hand snaps out, splaying across his chest, and he’s given a firm push back.

“Yeah, I don’t think so, buddy. Back it up.”

Stiles looks at the cop. He’s middle aged, with a thin moustache that’s more grey than brown, bristling above his lip. A lined face is settled into a pissed off scowl and he’s chewing on gum – _nicotine_ , Stiles thinks; he’s trying to quit smoking.

“I need to get through,” Stiles says. “I’m an agent of SHIELD -.”

“And I don’t care. No one’s getting through.”

Stiles exhales sharply. He looks at the tape, at the vans behind it, and wonders if he’s fast enough to just make a break for it anyway. The cop steps closer, eyes gleaming like he’s just daring Stiles to try, like he’s waiting for an opportunity to let off some withdrawal-related steam. 

He’s pretty sure that, even with his leg, he could take this guy pretty fucking easily, but he doesn’t _want_ to. 

“Let him through.”

Stiles looks over the cop’s shoulder, surprised to see Lowell approaching them. He tugs a badge out of his pocket, flipping it open to show his ID and the gleaming, slightly raised SHIELD logo. 

The officer pulls a face. “Orders said -.”

“I don’t care what your orders said,” Lowell replies evenly. “This is SHIELD jurisdiction, so the orders come from us. Let him through.”

His jaw tightens, but he steps back, a slight sneer on his face. Stiles can’t help but offer him a sarcastic wink as he lifts the tape, ducking underneath it. Lowell snorts slightly as he follows.

“One of these days, you’re gonna get punched,” he remarks.

“I already have,” Stiles says blithely. “Numerous times. By numerous people.”

“You have a talent for pissing people off,” Lowell agrees, shoving his hands into the pockets of his waterproof jacket. “It’s good to see you, Stilinski.”

“Well, mark that down as something I never thought I’d hear you say,” he replies.

“It’s been a year since I last saw you. Give it a week and I’ll come back to my senses.”

Stiles bites back a grin. “Do you even have the authority to let me through the blockade?”

“Probably not. Are you gonna say it was me if anyone asks?”

“Probably not.”

They stop outside a SHIELD van. The doors are open, exposing the tech inside; a couple of SHIELD agents are monitoring the action, relaying information over comms. Others are stationed around, forming a perimeter defence in case any of the fighting spills out this far. 

“So, what’s the situation?” Stiles asks.

“From what we can gather, we’ve got around a hundred hostiles,” Lowell replies. “All of them enhanced.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Enhanced how?”

“Most of them appear to be on Klapow’s serum. The advanced, stable one.”

“Son of a bitch,” Stiles mutters. “Klapow _did_ make the serum for Ward first. Ward’s just been waiting for the right time to use it. Any sign of him? ‘Cause I kind of owe him a kick straight off the roof of a building.”

“Nope. But they’re organized. _Really_ organized. Some of them are Inhumans, too.”

“Fun. Kind of seems like something the Avengers should have handled, though. What’s the hold up?”

“A _hundred_ hostiles,” Lowell repeats. “All enhanced.”

“And we’ve got the God of Thunder, a guy in a flying suit of metal that’s armed to the teeth, two super soldiers, the world’s best archer, Romanoff, and the Hulk. Shit, just send Agent Johnson in, she’d have it finished in ten minutes.”

“Agent Johnson _is_ fighting,” he replies. “But I mean it when I say these assholes are organized. And really fucking strong. Not to mention the Inhumans. Look.”

Lowell reaches past Stiles to one of the monitors inside the van, switching to footage from one of SHIELD’s drone cameras. It shows a woman facing down four SHIELD agents; they have her surrounded, their guns raised, but she doesn’t look concerned. 

Instead, she simply gestures towards a parked truck. With a flick of her fingers, it suddenly goes flying, soaring through the air. Stiles looks away before the agents get crushed. 

“Jesus fuck,” he says. “A telekinetic?”

Lowell nods, expression grim. “And that’s just one of them.”

Stiles looks back at the monitor, rubbing his hand across his jaw. “So, what? Ward’s had people _this_ powerful tucked under his belt this whole time? I don’t buy that. He’s working with someone.”

“Who?”

“I can’t say for sure, but I have a hunch, and it really isn’t fun. Are SHIELD linked to Avengers on comms?”

“Yeah. You want me to let them know you’re here?” 

He shakes his head. “No. I want you to give me a rifle and a comms unit.”

“Fuck, Stilinski, you know I can’t do that.”

Stiles nods. “Sure. But can you look away for five minutes?”

Lowell stares at him for a long moment before he exhales harshly through his nose, shaking his head slightly. “I’ve got to check out something on this monitor,” he says. “I won’t be long.”

He climbs into the van, pointedly turning his back on Stiles, and Stiles grins, making a mental note to buy Lowell a drink at some point. He’s actually not as much of a dick as he’d first thought. Or maybe he’s just mellowed out over the past year.

Stiles peers at one of the audio units inside the van, then slips away, heading for the van he knows will be stocked with weapons for the SHIELD teams aiding the Avengers. There’s a guard seated in the front, but Stiles is pretty damn good at going unnoticed, and he’s quick and silent as he grabs what he needs. 

He makes his way to an alleyway, ditching his backpack behind a dumpster. Slinging the strap of the rifle over his chest, he slips the comms unit into his ear, connecting it to the frequency he’d seen inside the van. 

The first voice he hears has his heart squeezing, tight and painful, inside his chest.

“– Widow, I need you to coordinate with Coulson’s team. Agent Johnson is on -.” There’s a pause, then a grunt as Steve takes down whoever just tried to attack him. 

“Cap,” Iron Man says. “You’ve got incoming. Frostbite on your five o’clock.”

“ _Frostbite_?” Sam repeats. 

“Dude who breathes ice,” Clint clarifies. “Iron Man chose that one, since I called dibs on naming Ghostface.”

Stiles takes a moment, just closes his eyes and breathes. It _hurts_ , hearing them banter across the comms, their voices interspersed with gunfire or the sound of fighting. That friendliness, that familiarity and trust in one another, hasn’t changed one bit since Stiles left, and he hadn’t realized until now how much he missed it.

He shakes himself out of it, pushes it down until it can’t distract him, and carefully climbs onto the fire escape to his right. His leg hurts, protesting him moving so much, but he’s definitely done a lot more while injured a lot worse, so he ignores it as he keeps going up, until he reaches the top of the building. He vaults over the edge of the roof, landing with a wince, and pauses for a moment to listen to the voices on the comms before approaching the front of the building.

He takes up position halfway across the low wall marking the edge of the roof. He sets up the sniper rifle and looks through the scope; his location gives him a clear view to where Steve, Thor and Sam are fighting off nearly twenty enhanced hostiles. They’ve got the advantage; Thor easily takes down numerous enemies with Mjolnir, Steve does the same with his shield, and Sam is damn skilled with firearms. 

He can’t get eyes on Natasha, but he knows Clint and Bucky are stationed on rooftops, picking off hostiles from a long range; Bucky with his rifle and Clint with his tactical arrows. Iron Man soars through the air, intermittently landing to fight on the ground before taking to the skies again, herding their opponents right where they want them while keeping them away from SHIELD’s perimeter defence.

In the distance, there’s a roar, and a brief flash of green between buildings. Hulk is doing his thing. Stiles keeps his attention on the three team members fighting primarily on the ground. They’ve got a handle on the situation, but the faster they take down the group, the faster they can move on to the next target.

Stiles aims. Mentally, he calculates the range, the direction and force of the wind and how the light snowfall will affect his visibility; then, he waits for the right moment, for the exact second that three hostiles line up perfectly, and he fires. 

All three go down from one single, angled that punches through their shoulders. Stiles exhales slowly. It’s been a while since he’s used a rifle, but the mathematics, the precision of it, is familiar. He watches as Steve makes sure the wounded men won’t get back up, then turns, searching the rooftops, one hand lifting to his ear.

“Buck?” he says cautiously. “You move position?”

“Wasn’t me,” Bucky replies. “We’ve got an unknown shooter.”

“Is it SHIELD?” Sam asks.

“Nope. I’ve got eyes on our shooter.” Iron Man arcs into view as he says it, easing into a hover in the air a few feet in front of Stiles. The faceplate stares impassively at him for a moment before, “Nice shooting, Bambi.”

There’s a long pause. Stiles doesn’t know what to say; _can’t_ say anything, his mouth glued together, his heart cracking open in his chest as he hears Steve’s quiet, nearly silent intake of breath over the comms. 

It’s Agent Johnson who breaks it. “Okay. We’ve got a SHIELD sniper in play. Agents Morse and Rodriguez are in position to the west of the Rockefeller. I’m going to quake, so. You know. Hold on to something.”

A second later, there’s a rumble, and the building shakes slightly. Stiles holds still, eyes widening; he’s seen Daisy use her gifts before, but nothing on this kind of scale. It’s kind of awe inspiring, feeling for himself just how powerful she can be. The quake only lasts for ten seconds before it suddenly stops.

“Well, that’s thirty down,” Agent Johnson says. “Ghostface is out of commission.”

“Nice work, Agent,” Tony remarks, diving away from Stiles; he’s gone in an instant, just a flash of red and gold weaving between buildings.

Stiles pushes the adrenaline and nerves aside, focusing on his task. He keeps up a steady pace, offering cover to those fighting on the ground and picking off as many of the enhanced goons as he can. Their numbers start to dwindle pretty quickly, easily overwhelmed by the combined force of the Avengers and Agent Johnson and her team. 

It doesn’t make sense. Ward’s been waiting, building his numbers and plying them with serum, for all this time, but this plan is pretty shit. Anyone smart would know it’s a risky move. Ward’s too good, too calculated, to throw it all out on one effort against the Avengers and SHIELD. 

He knows Deucalion has to be involved, that he’s provided the ones with powers, but he doesn’t know _why_ , or what the endgame is. Not knowing unnerves him. They can’t prepare if they don’t know what they’re preparing _for_.

“Stark,” Natasha’s voice rings over the comms. “You free?”

“Sure,” he drawls. “Just enjoying the view. Nice scenery. I might take a power nap in a minute. What do you need?”

“Fish in a barrel.”

“Fish in a barrel,” he repeats, a grin audible in his voice. “You got it.”

Stiles watches as Tony ducks lower to the ground, twisting and turning in precisely calculated circles, both coaxing and chasing the remaining clusters of those on the serum. He fires off occasional repulsor blasts, picking off some of their numbers while herding them towards a narrow alleyway. Once inside it, they’re forced to stick close together, unaware of Natasha and Sam at the other end of the alley.

Stiles smiles slightly. _Fish in a barrel_. He has a direct line of sight into the alleyway and he watches as Natasha and Sam start firing off shots, taking down multiple hostiles. There’s only three left when someone else swings in to offer back up, a tall, scrawny man with long, pale blond hair. 

“дерьмо,” Natasha mutters. “Cap, we’ve got company. It’s -.”

The guy – ‘Frostbite’, presumably - opens his mouth and starts to _spew_ ice, freezing the ground and walls. It shoots closer to Natasha and Sam, who back up, trying to fire off shots through the volley of icicles, but they can’t protect themselves from the wave of ice about to crush them. 

Two things happen at once: a blur of red, white and blue launches over the back brick wall at the end of the alley, landing in front of Natasha and Sam; Steve tugs them in close and lifts his shield just in time to stop the ice from hitting them. In the same instant, Stiles fires off a shot, and Frostbite goes down, his shoulder shattered. 

“Thanks,” Natasha says breathlessly. “You too, Stilinski.”

“I need back up,” Clint’s voice rings out. “I’ve got two – or, fuck, one, shit, I don’t know – on me. Fucking creepy ass Shining twins.”

Alarm cuts down Stiles’s spine. “Don’t kill them.”

“What?” he demands, incredulous. “They’re trying to _squish me like a bug_.”

“Don’t,” he repeats, then, “Stark, I could use a lift.”

“I’m gonna start charging you assholes. I’m not a damn Uber.” 

But he appears a second later, getting a solid hold on Stiles. They’re airborne again before Stiles can take a deep breath to prepare himself and he squeezes his eyes shut, refusing to look beneath them as they arc through the air. Wind and snow batters his face and he can _feel_ how high up they are, but Tony’s grip is secure, and less than a minute later, he’s dipping lower, towards the roof where Clint is trying to fight off the Steiner twins.

He drops Stiles just a couple of feet above the roof before soaring off again, repulsors whining. Stiles lands and rolls, wincing as pain sears through his thigh, but he ignores it as he gets to his feet. The building isn’t as high up as some of the ones surrounding it, but it’s still tall enough that the wind is bitingly cold. Stiles ignores the sting in his cheeks and gives a sharp, piercing whistle.

The twins have merged together and they swing towards him. Recognition flickers across their face and their upper lip curls up as they start approaching him.

“Hey, guys,” Stiles says cheerfully. “Oh, man. I gotta tell you, you are even _uglier_ in the daytime.”

Behind them, Clint fires off a shot; the bullet punctures the twins’ right shoulder, but they don’t stop moving. Two more shots make them stumble slightly, but they heal _fast_ , and they keep walking towards Stiles, hands clenched into big, meaty fists.

“I mean, seriously,” Stiles adds, stepping backwards, keeping a gap between him and the twins. “It’s like someone took a naked mole rat’s scrotum and somehow made it even more hideous. It’s like a superpower in itself.” 

Another shot and the twins stagger and nearly fall, catching themselves on one knee, but they force themselves back to their feet a second later and keep crowding forward as Stiles keeps baiting them with insults. Clint looks resigned to Stiles mouthing off at a giant, supernaturally strong monster, catching his gaze over the twins’ shoulder.

“I’ve got no way of taking this thing down without killing them,” Clint calls over the wind. “You got any ideas?”

Stiles keeps backing up. His heels hit the edge of the roof. “Actually,” he says. “Yeah. I do.”

The twins lash forward. Stiles throws himself to the side, ducking beneath the fist that swings towards him, and rolls to kip back up to his feet. He twists to avoid a kick, keeps ducking and moving to the side until, finally, he’s reversed their positions; the twins stand at the edge of the roof, shoulders squared, ready to attack.

Stiles strikes. It takes everything he has, every single bit of strength, but he surges forward and then jumps, kicking them in the chest with both feet. The force of it pushes them back, sends them toppling over the edge of the roof, and Stiles lands on his back with a wince, thigh throbbing and fresh pain shooting through him from the impact with the roof. Several feet below, the sound of a spine snapping is sickeningly audible.

“ _Jesus_ ,” Clint says. “ _That_ was your idea for not killing them? Kick them off a fucking roof?”

Stiles shrugs. “Worked last time,” he replies, struggling back to his feet. 

He moves to the edge, peering over. The twins have landed on the fire escape, their spine snapped from bending over the rail. Their bodies are already slithering apart again, separating now they’re unconscious, but Stiles is pretty sure that they’re alive, and he thinks their spines will heal, given their preternatural healing ability. 

Maybe.

“Hawkeye,” Cap’s voice cuts across the comms. “Report.”

“All clear, Cap,” Clint replies.

All of the hostiles are down, which is a relief, because the pain is starting to wear on Stiles. He limps towards the roof door, lifting a hand to speak into the comms.

“Got a gift for you, Iron Man. On the fire escape of the building I’m on. Do me a favour and give them a ride to the ground?”

“Not an Uber,” Tony points out, but adds, “I’m on it.”

The descent is rough. Clint doesn’t speak as they make their way down several flights of stairs, but he does keep pace with Stiles. If he was any less tired, Stiles would fill the silence, maybe try and get a read on what Clint’s thinking, but right now, he can only focus on each step, on putting one foot in front of the other until, finally, they exit the building.

The team regroups at the cluster of SHIELD vans. Stiles hesitates before following Clint, the pain in his thigh briefly swamped by sudden nerves. Adrenaline and anxiety tightens his chest, bubbling in his veins as he gets closer to the team. He stops between Clint and Natasha, unable to help his gaze from locking on Steve.

He’s stood just a few feet away. Stiles has seen him on TV, has seen him in the news, but seeing him in person, so goddamn _close_ , after nearly a year is like a punch to the gut, stealing his breath and leaving him reeling. He’s a little bruised, cowl lowered to expose his battle-messy blond hair and some dirt on his jaw. He looks so fucking good, so painfully beautiful, and Stiles never fell out of love with Steve, never stopped missing him for a single minute over the past several months, but looking at him now, he realizes his love never waned even the tiniest bit. 

He’s still completely, helplessly, ass over elbows for Steve goddamn Rogers.

Steve holds Stiles’s gaze. He’s still in Captain mode and his face gives nothing away, but those blue eyes are too much. Stiles has to look away, distracting himself by focusing on the twins sprawled on the ground at their feet. One of them – Aiden; he has the scar on his throat – stirs, groaning slightly. Stiles prods him with the toe of his boots.

“Hey,” he says. 

Aiden grunts, face twisting with pain. “You _fucker_ ,” he manages.

“Aw, come on,” Stiles replies. “There wasn’t even a dumpster this time.”

“You’ve met them before?” Agent Johnson asks him, unstrapping her gauntlets. 

“Kinda. Last time I tackled them off a roof. Managed to not go with them this time, so that’s an improvement, I guess.”

“You have an interesting definition of ‘improvement’,” Natasha mutters. 

“You might wanna cuff them,” Stiles says. “So they can’t merge again.”

“I’m pretty sure their spines are broken,” Morse points out.

Stiles meets her gaze. “For now, maybe.”

He watches as a couple of SHIELD agents make their way over. They securely cuff the twins and haul them into a van, positioning them a safe distance apart so they can’t do their freaky body-meld thing. 

“You’re bleeding,” Morse remarks.

“Yeah. Sounds about right.” Stiles agrees. “I think I pulled my stitches.”

“Stitches?” she asks, raising an eyebrow.

“I kind of got shot. A little bit.”

“You need medical,” she says. “And we need to get these two to SHIELD.” 

“Not yet,” Stiles replies. “And you can’t take them to the base.”

“Why not?” Agent Johnson asks.

“They work for Deucalion. He’s brainwashed them. I’m willing to bet everyone involved today has been brainwashed. He supplied them for Ward. Or, more likely, used Ward and his serum to aid his own attack.” 

“Then we need to question them about Deucalion,” Morse points out.

“You’ve seen how powerful they are. How powerful the others are. Deucalion wouldn’t sacrifice them for a play as risky as this unless he intended for them to get caught.” Stiles catches Aiden’s gaze. “They’re a Trojan horse.”

Aiden sneers. “He’s gonna find you,” he says. “He’s not staying in the shadows anymore. And you’re at the top of his list, asshole.”

Stiles leans in. “Yeah?” he replies softly, calmly. “Good. ‘Cause I’ve been looking for him, too. And I’m really looking forward to finally meeting him.” 

“Agent Stilinski.”

He straightens and turns to look at Coulson. He’s dressed in his usual bland, bureaucratic suit. He has a new prosthetic hand; it looks real, as human and lifelike as his previous model, but Stiles can tell the subtle difference by the way Coulson’s holding it at his side. He’s willing to bet Fitz designed some cool new gadgets for it. 

Flanked by Agents May and Mack, Coulson stops a couple of feet away. “I need you to come with me.”

Stiles eyes him. “Am I under arrest?”

His mouth ticks up ever so slightly. “That depends. You got up to quite a lot while you were away, after all.”

Stiles shrugs. “Lead the way.”

He starts to follow Coulson, but he can’t resist glancing back at Steve. He finds the other man’s gaze already on him, a small frown on his face as he watches Stiles walk away. He opens his mouth slightly, as if to call for him, but Stiles isn’t ready for that, isn’t ready to _really_ face Steve. 

He hadn’t planned on seeing them so soon. He’s stopped running, he’s come back to the city, but being around them, any of them…that’s a different matter entirely. But knowing something was going down, being close enough to actually _do_ something…there was no way he could be idle while others were fighting. He’d jumped in to help, but it means facing them earlier than he’d anticipated, and he’s not ready. 

So he looks away, and he doesn’t glance back as he follows Coulson to a van. He climbs carefully into the back and slumps against the door, adrenaline seeping out of him like the blood trailing, hot and sticky, down his thigh.

“By the way,” he says lightly. “There’s a SHIELD rifle on that rooftop over there. Might wanna do something about that before a local finds it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm currently planning a little addendum to this verse; a kind of series of unconnected snippets set throughout the series, drabbles or scenes that didn't make it into the final fic. I thought it might be fun to open it up to prompts, too, so if there's anything you'd like to see, feel free to mention it in a comment, or send me an ask over on my tumblr!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warnings for: blood, description of wounds, injections, and stitches, mention of brainwashing.

As soon as they get to the base, Stiles is taken straight to medical.

It’s a punch to the gut, seeing it all again. The bland concrete, the long, narrow corridors and bright, artificial lighting. Stiles walks past the screen doors leading to the main science lab, past the door to Coulson’s office and the archway leading to a small kitchen and TV area, past the SHIELD insignia stretching across the walls. Nothing has changed, but he _has_ , and it’s almost surreal and definitely a little painful to be here again, right in the heart of SHIELD.

Coulson pauses when they reach the medical bay. “When you’re done, come to my office.”

Stiles nods. Coulson will have stuff he needs to deal with, sorting out the aftermath of today’s incident and making sure the culprits are securely locked up. He’ll have to handle the press and the questions from the authorities and government. But he’s making time for Stiles.

The medical bay is a tiny bit different; the beds have been shifted around slightly, providing more space to accommodate a constantly growing number of staff. A few SHIELD agents are already being treated after today’s battle and Simmons is helping out, carefully stitching up a cut in Agent Piper’s arm. She glances up as Stiles walks past, looks at him for a moment before offering a small, kind smile. 

Dr Moore ushers him to a bed tucked in one corner. She pulls the privacy curtain around and leaves him to remove his boots and jeans. The denim is stuck to his leg with blood, so peeling it away is pretty fucking awful, but he finally gets them off. Left in his sweater and boxers, he eyes the wound in his thigh. Most of the stitches have split open and it looks pretty gnarly; blood, cold and tacky, crusts on his skin, while hot, fresh blood oozes from the torn flesh. He can see some of the stitches underneath, the ones in the layer of muscle, and a lot of them have opened up, too. Seeing his own muscle is both fascinating and incredibly gross.

The doctor returns, snapping on a pair of latex gloves. There’s a file in her hands and she gives it a brief scan, presumably looking over his medical information for any allergies or conditions, before she sets it aside and looks at him.

“What happened?” she asks.

“I pulled my stitches.”

One slim eyebrow arches. “I gathered that much. What happened to warrant the stitches?”

“I got shot. Kind of. The bullet skimmed me, chewed up some skin and muscle, but nothing serious.” 

“I take it you didn’t go and see an actual doctor,” she says, moving closer to examine the wound. 

“I couldn’t go to a hospital,” Stiles replies.

“Hmm. So who stitched it up?”

“I did.”

She looks up at his face, dubious. “No, you didn’t.”

He shrugs. “I had no choice.”

“You stitched up muscle and skin yourself,” she says. “Despite the blood loss and pain, and the fact that you have no medical training?”

“Yep.”

“Uh huh. And the fact that, from what I can tell, the stitches were expertly done before you ripped them up? It takes experience to stitch that neatly.” 

“I guess I got lucky,” Stiles replies evenly. “Like I said. I did it myself.”

Her mouth ticks up into a small smile. “Relax, Stiles. It’s not my job to interrogate you. I’m just here to fix you up.”

Stiles doesn’t reply, just watches as she carefully examines and then cleans the wound. It stings like fuck, but he doesn’t flinch or twitch, simply allows her to do what she needs to. Once she’s done, she injects some local anaesthetic, waiting for it to numb the area before she gets to work on fixing the stitches.

Movement catches Stiles’s attention. He glances up towards the door. The walls on either side of it are glass, offering a view into the medical bay, and Allison’s stood outside in the corridor, watching him.

Her hair is pinned back in a high ponytail and she’s wearing workout gear, leggings and a sports bra. It exposes her stomach and the scar there; Stiles has to drag his gaze away from it, guilt, acidic and ruthless, churning inside him. Her arms are folded and she just looks at him, dark eyes focused on his face for a long, tense moment.

And then she walks away.

Stiles exhales slowly. He isn’t surprised by her reaction and he isn’t surprised by how much it hurts, but it’s what he deserves. The last time she saw him, he drove a knife into her stomach. No matter how strong their friendship had been…there’s not really any coming back from that. From any of it.

Dr Moore finishes and places a dressing over the freshly stitched wound. She peels off her gloves, placing them in a biohazard can, and grabs a couple of packets from the cupboard.

“Painkillers,” she says, handing him one, then the other. “And antibiotics. Do me a favour? Try not to mess these stitches up.”

“I’ll do my best,” he replies, managing a tired smile. “But I can’t make any promises.”

She shakes her head. “Wait here. I’ll grab you something to wear.” 

He offers a grateful nod; he definitely doesn’t want to put the blood-crusted jeans back on. They can go in the biohazard can for all he cares. She leaves for ten minutes, returning with a pair of SHIELD issue sweatpants and a familiar backpack.

“Agent Morse found this,” she says. “I’m guessing it’s yours?”

Stiles nods. “Yeah. Thanks.”

There’s not anything important inside it, not really, yet…everything inside it has travelled with him, his one true constant, and being reunited with it feels oddly relieving. Dr Moore gives him privacy to get dressed. He tugs the sweatpants on and slides the knife out of his right boot, tucking it away in the backpack, before putting the shoes on. 

The anaesthetic is wearing off, thigh starting to really sting, and he limps out of the medical bay, making his way to Coulson’s office. He knocks on the door, surprised to hear the Director call him in just a moment later. Slipping inside, he shuts the door behind him and hovers near it, meeting Coulson’s gaze.

He’s sat behind his desk and he gestures towards one of the armchairs on the other side of it. “Take a seat, Stiles.”

Stiles drops his backpack to the floor next to the chair and settles into it. Coulson slides a mug of coffee across the desk and he accepts it, realizing just how thirsty and exhausted he actually is as he takes a quick, needy gulp. 

“How’s the leg?” Coulson asks.

He shrugs. “Still there.”

Coulson nods, settling back in his seat. For a long moment, they simply look at each other. The Director’s face is bland and unreadable, but Stiles, despite his many months away, still remembers where to look to see beyond the calm surface; he knows to look at the eyes. As always, despite the deceptively neutral, vaguely pleasant expression on his face, those blue eyes are sharp, calculating. Seeing everything and processing it all, without giving even the slightest glimpse into his own thoughts.

Stiles is used to that, is used to seeing that strong, ruthless undercurrent: the power, the _threat_ , hidden inside a bureaucratic exterior. He slouches in his own chair and holds Coulson’s gaze, allowing him to see what he suspects the other man in searching for, and nothing more than that.

Abruptly, Coulson’s mouth twitches into a small, almost imperceptible smile. He removes a folder from a pile neatly stacked on one side of the desk and slaps it onto the polished wood surface in front of Stiles.

“Bristol,” he says.

Stiles looks at the folder, but doesn’t make any move to open it. “What about it?”

“Owen Rhys,” Coulson replies. “That’s the name of the man you stopped. He faced a trial for his actions, including several other crimes he ultimately confessed to after we gathered some witness statements. He’s currently in one of SHIELD’s prisons. He’ll serve time for the crimes he committed. Fitzsimmons managed to create a solution to his power, so he’s unable to use it anymore. Not that he wasn’t already struggling.” He tilts his head slightly. “His hands healed. His larynx, not so much.”

“And the girl?” Stiles asks. “Hanna Taylor?”

“She’s doing well,” Coulson says. “We got her in touch with a support group. Last time we checked in with her, she was in a good place.”

He nods, but doesn’t say anything. It’s a relief to know that the guy is behind bars and won’t be able to hurt anyone else, and it’s definitely good to hear that Hanna Taylor is doing okay after what happened. But he doesn’t know _why_ Coulson is telling him this, doesn’t know where the other man is going with this conversation, and it puts him on edge. 

Coulson picks up another file from the stack. It drops on top of the unopened folder in front of Stiles. 

“Arizona.”

Stiles doesn’t look down at the beige manila file. “Is the sixth largest state?” he offers. “Desert climate, home to the Grand Canyon, ranked 33rd when it comes to population density.”

“You were there.”

He shrugs. “Probably. I’ve kind of been everywhere, actually. You’ll have to be more specific.”

“Bradley Wright and Daniel Beck. Two prolific Hydra assassins, linked to several -.”

“High profile kills, including the death of the son of a US senator,” Stiles finishes. “Yeah, I saw the news.” 

“Both currently locked up in a supermax, after they were found tied up and bleeding in a motel bathroom and handed themselves over, complete confessions to their numerous assassinations and all. Apparently, supermax is preferable to whatever Hydra would do to them for getting caught.” Coulson holds Stiles’s gaze. “They were assigned to kill you.”

Stiles doesn’t flinch and he doesn’t look away. He knew SHIELD were aware of Stiles’s involvement; after all, his DNA was all over that motel room, not to mention the confession from the assassins themselves. But until he knows exactly what Coulson’s game is, he isn’t giving up any more information than the Director already has.

Another file from the stack hits the others with a quiet _slap_. “LA. Another team of assassins, this time brought in by Clint Barton. I’m not sure why he was there or how he knew about them, or why one of the team was bloody and bruised when he was arrested, because Barton hasn’t exactly been forthcoming with information.” 

Stiles feels a flicker of surprise. Clint hadn’t just let him go; he hadn’t said a word to Coulson or SHIELD, either. He doesn’t know how Clint found them, or why he’s kept quiet about the details, but he feels a rush of gratitude towards the older man. 

_Muffin basket_ , he thinks, and he’s not sure whether he wants to laugh or cry. 

“The one with the broken nose didn’t have anything to say to us, either,” Coulson adds. “Except that they were tasked to find and kill you. Interestingly, none of them had anything to say about whether you were involved or not.” 

Stiles just shrugs slightly. “Sounds like they failed, then.”

Another file, this one thicker. “Indiana,” Coulson says. “We don’t know what happened here, or why; only that a man matching your description was caught on CCTV at a gas station a few miles out from where a large explosion occurred hours later. When we arrived, the place was deserted and in ruins, but we managed to gather some useful intel. It used to be a brainwashing facility owned by Hydra.”

“Good job it was destroyed, then,” he replies mildly.

“We found some blood on the scene.” Coulson pauses for a moment before adding, “For some reason, our attempts to test it weren’t helpful in identifying who it belonged to.”

Stiles’s gaze snaps to Coulson’s. That’s bullshit; there’s no way SHIELD’s lab techs would fail to test the blood. They know that it belongs to Stiles, left there from the debris cutting into his side, but they’ve made sure that there’s no evidence of that, are refusing to make the claim. Because what went down at the base wasn’t a sanctioned mission by SHIELD or anyone else; it was Stiles, going renegade, and if an enquiry was done into it, he could face charges for his actions.

SHIELD’s protecting him.

Again.

Coulson’s mouth twitches again. He grabs the last file, placing it on top of the rest. “Seattle,” he says. “The residence of one Edwin Jacobs was infiltrated. Local authorities were given an anonymous tip off; when they arrived, they found several unconscious hired security and four formerly missing people. Once it was determined that one of them was gifted, SHIELD were called in. We managed to find and arrest Geoffrey Wilson, and at the residence, we found evidence that Edwin Jacobs is, in fact, Elias Jakobsson, and that he’d been performing human experiments on people he kidnapped and held in cells. Those people talked to us, told us everything that happened and what was done to them, but, curiously, they wouldn’t put a name to their savior on record.”

_Braeden_ , Stiles thinks. While he was bleeding and unconscious in the van, she must have asked Bill and the others to keep quiet about her involvement, and to not implicate Stiles by mentioning him on their official statements. 

“We found blood there, too. But, again, we weren’t able to collect any useful samples.”

“Kinda sounds like your techs suck, Coulson,” Stiles replies blithely. “Might want to look into that.”

Coulson sits back again. “There are things I don’t want to know, Stiles,” he says evenly. 

Stiles understands what he’s saying; he doesn’t want confirmation of Stiles’s involvement, or details on what happened, because that would not only incriminate SHIELD, but force Coulson into a difficult position if a government enquiry _did_ happen. 

“Then what do you want?” he asks.

“There are things I _do_ need to know.”

“Why?”

“I claimed that an undercover SHIELD agent was behind some of these incidents,” Coulson points out. “That agent can very easily be you.”

Stiles frowns. “ _Why_?”

Coulson opens his drawer, tugs out a slim leather wallet. He snaps it open and sets it down in front of Stiles. The logo and ID card is painfully familiar; the last time Stiles saw it, he’d left it behind with Steve’s dog tags. 

“Because SHIELD protects its agents.”

Stiles swallows. He looks away, clenching his jaw, trying to crush the burst of wistfulness and bleak, awful misery inside him. Reaching out, he rests his fingertips on the badge – and then firmly pushes it back across the desk. 

“I’m not a SHIELD agent anymore.”

Coulson sighs. He doesn’t try to nudge the badge back towards Stiles, but he doesn’t pick it up, either. It stays on the desk between them, a brutal line drawn in the sand. Stiles holds Coulson’s gaze and doesn’t say another word.

“They’re calling you Ghost.”

Bemused, Stiles raises an eyebrow. “Who are?”

“The press. Followers of yours, both fans and those who aren’t.” Coulson leans back. “They think you’re a vigilante.” 

He can’t help it; he snorts. “And _Ghost_ is the best name they could come up with? That’s…fucking terrible.” 

“I’ve heard worse.” 

Stiles shakes his head. Fucking _Ghost_. Seriously. He knows why; he _has_ been a ghost over the last several months, moving from place to place like a shadow, disappearing as easily as he makes his presence known. And it does feel cuttingly fitting. After all, part of him _did_ die, and he’s been a ghost of himself ever since. But the thought of being a vigilante, of seriously going around with the moniker ‘Ghost’, has incredulous laughter choking in his throat.

“Are you?” Coulson presses. “A vigilante?”

“Hardly.”

“A lot of your actions appear otherwise.”

He sighs. “I wasn’t doing it to be a vigilante, or a hero, or whatever.” 

“Then why were you doing it?”

“To find Deucalion.” 

Coulson’s gaze goes sharp at that. “And who is Deucalion?”

Surprise flickers through Stiles. He’d thought SHIELD might already be aware of Deucalion, might have files on him, but apparently not. The realization that even SHIELD has no idea about Deucalion is incredibly unsettling.

“He’s Hydra,” Stiles says. “He’s the leader of the team that Kali belonged to. Julia’s fiancée. He brainwashed them. And Elias Jakobsson used to supply powered people for him to brainwash into being his weapons. Including Kali, I’m guessing.”

“We were never able to find anything on him. Not even a name.” Coulson runs a hand over his jaw. “Until now. Deucalion.”

“Jakobsson is also the one who gave Julia her power. Did you find him?”

“No, but we’re looking,” he replies. “So you were trying to track down Deucalion. Why? Because he was trying to kill you? Or for atonement? Revenge?”

“None of the above. Or all of the above. I don’t know.” Stiles scrubs a hand over his hair. “I don’t _know_ , okay? I just…it gave me purpose. But I’m not looking for him anymore. That’s why I’m here. That’s why I came back. I’m done looking for him and I’m done running.”

“So what are you doing now?” 

“Surviving.”

For a moment, Coulson doesn’t say anything, just observes Stiles quietly. Then, something in his posture shifts, authority settling over him like an old, well-worn garment. 

“Tell me everything you know about Deucalion, Jakobsson and the twins we brought in today.”

Stiles does. He feels more at ease like this; it’s familiar, reminds him of when he used to give reports or debrief after a mission, and laying out the facts and information is definitely a hell of a lot easier than the conversation they’d just been having. 

When he’s done, he asks, “Where are the Steiner twins being held?”

“Somewhere secure. Separate SHIELD safehouses, away from the base.”

Stiles nods. “Good. Deucalion wanted them to get caught and brought in. His own Trojan horse. I’m guessing they were supposed to try and take SHIELD down from inside the base, or gather intel to feed back to him.” He pushes out a breath. “He’s done hiding in the shadows. Whatever his plan is, he’s put it in motion. I’m guessing today was just the beginning.”

“Then we’ll stop him,” Coulson says. “All you have to do is pick up the badge.”

He doesn’t. Instead, he asks, “Are we done here?”

Something crosses Coulson’s face, gone too quick to identify. “Yes. We’re done here.” He pauses, then, “Head by room 32A before you go. There’s someone who’d like to see you.”

Stiles raises an eyebrow at that, but doesn’t argue. He gets to his feet, grabs his backpack, and heads for the door. He pauses when Coulson says his name, hand hovering above the door handle.

“Hypothetically,” Coulson says carefully. “If whoever was at that facility in Indiana wasn’t alone…who do you think they’d be working with?”

Stiles doesn’t turn. “I have no idea. I wasn’t there, remember? But, _hypothetically_ , if I were you…I’d assume they were alone, that they weren’t working with anyone.”

Coulson doesn’t press, doesn’t try and find out information on Braeden, and there’s no way in hell Stiles is going to give it. He owes Braeden. He’s not going to give her up to anyone, even SHIELD. 

“If we’re talking in hypotheticals…” he trails off.

“Yes?” Coulson prompts. 

“Hypothetically, you might want to have a look into that facility some more. Maybe look up an ‘M Holland’ in your files.”

A pause, then, “Maybe I’ll do that.”

Stiles leaves.

He feels a little ragged and incredibly tired, both from the battle and from his conversation with Coulson, but there’s a small glimmer of something good, something _light_ , inside him. He can’t give much, but he can at least give Coulson the name he found on that basement wall. He can help the truth about what happened to that agent come to light and provide her loved ones with some kind of closure after all this time.

And that…that’s _something_.

***

32A is a small room, furnished with couches and a coffee machine. It’s a softer, kinder version of the interrogation vaults, designed for questioning people in a comforting environment rather than an imposing one. Usually, it’s used for those who aren’t dangerous, who aren’t suspects, but can provide useful intel.

Now, there’s a girl sat on one of the couches.

It takes Stiles a moment to recognize her. Her hair is clean, gleaming honey blonde under the artificial lights, and cut short, curling to the hinge of her jaw. She’s skinny, too skinny, but there’s color in her cheeks and life in her dark eyes, and she looks healthier than the last time he saw her, dressed in a comfortable sweater and bright pink sweatpants; her socks are patterned with little ice cream cones. 

“Lori?” Stiles says.

Smiling, she gets to her feet. “Hi, Stiles.”

For a moment, he just looks at her, surprised but happy. It’s been a week since he last saw her, but she already appears to be doing so much better. She’s _smiling_ , a bright, genuine grin, like sunshine breaking through storm clouds.

_Strong_ , he thinks, remembering how, despite everything she’d been through, despite her bone deep, gut wrenching terror, she’d taken his hands and walked out of that building, steel in her core and fire in her heart. He sees that same strength now, but it’s different; softer, kinder, yet just as unshakeable.

“It’s good to see you,” he says.

“You too,” she replies. “I was kinda worried. There was so much blood, I thought…” she trails off. 

“I’m fine. The bullet grazed me. Hurts like hell and I’ll have a gnarly scar, but I’m fine.”

Lori nods, tucking her hair behind her ears. “I didn’t mention you,” she murmurs. “In my official statements, I mean. I…Mr Coulson knows about what happened, we talked unofficially about it, but I kept your name off the record.”

Stiles reaches out, squeezing her shoulder gently. “Thanks, Lori. I appreciate it.”

“I just wish that I could tell people. What you did, I mean. You saved me. You saved us.”

He looks away, thinks about Callie, about all the people he _didn’t_ save, all the people Jakobsson hurt and tortured and killed in his quest to create something he never should have had the power to give or control. 

“Not everyone,” he says quietly.

She sits down and reaches out, tugging on his sleeve until he sits next to her. The couch is ridiculously comfortable and it’s a relief to be off his feet; now the anaesthetic has worn off, his leg hurts like hell. 

“But you saved us,” Lori says firmly. Her gaze is unwavering on his face. “And the Doctor…” she pauses, corrects herself, “ _Jakobsson_ , he won’t get away with this again. He’ll be found. Because of you.”

Awareness slides down Stiles’s spine; they’re not alone. But for the first time in months, the realization that someone is behind him, that someone is watching him, doesn’t make him feel paranoid, doesn’t have him bracing himself for a fight or to run. He knows, without even looking towards the doorway, that it’s Steve. 

“SHIELD will find him,” Stiles assures her. “But it wasn’t…I didn’t know about him, until B told me. She’s the one who saved you.”

“Sure,” she agrees. “But she’s not here. And you’re the one who opened those cages. You stayed with me. You refused to leave without me, no matter what happened. You were willing to stay, even if I lost control, even if I hurt you. _You_ got me out of there. You got me here.”

“Are you…” Stiles starts, then pauses. ‘Happy’ seems like the wrong word here, but he isn’t sure how else to ask it. “How is it? Here?”

“Good. Daisy – uh, Agent Johnson, she gave me a choice. She said I could be transferred to one of SHIELD’s facilities designed to help people like me learn control before going back out into society. Or I could stay here and learn from her directly, maybe…maybe, eventually, start training with her team.”

He winces slightly. It’s not the most ideal of choices, he knows that; he’s witnessed other Inhumans taken in by SHIELD and their reaction to the knowledge that they’re not safe to be let back out yet. In some ways, it must feel like a kind of prison in itself, but he also knows SHIELD doesn’t exactly have much of a choice. It’s part of their duty to protect and to help. 

Lori shrugs at his expression. “No, it…it was good. Because they gave me that choice. When you offered me your hands and asked me to leave that basement with you, that was the first choice I’d had in…in so _long_. SHIELD, Daisy, they offered me another choice. I got to be in control. I’m grateful for that.”

“So you’re thinking of joining Daisy’s team?”

“Maybe. I’m still kinda taking each day as it comes. I don’t know what I want yet. But right now, I’m learning to control my power. Daisy’s help has been incredible. It feels…it feels right.”

“Good,” Stiles says softly. “I’m glad you’re doing okay, Lori.”

She smiles slightly. “Yeah, I am. Thanks to you.” She pauses, expression turning more serious as she gazes at him. Then, quietly, she offers, “The Doctor spoke about her sometimes.”

A chill stings through Stiles. He already knows the answer, but he still asks, “Who?”

“The woman. Julia Baccari? He never used that name. He called her ‘Subject Zero’. His first real success. But I’ve been catching up on what I missed and I recognized her power from he said about her.” 

Stiles swallows. “What did he say about her?”

“That she was the only one who could control her power from the start,” Lori says quietly. “She adapted to the serum like…like she was _born_ for it. Adapted to her power like it was as easy as breathing to her. He said he’d never been able to replicate it since. He spoke…he spoke like he loved her, but it wasn’t…he was _reverent_. And he was possessive. Like everything she was belonged to him.”

Stiles taps his fingers on his knee. “She volunteered for the experiment,” he says. “But I always wondered…why he didn’t keep her. If she was his first real success, if he was that reverent of her, why didn’t he try and find out _why_ she took to it so well? Why didn’t he look for her?”

“I think…” Lori hesitates, bites her lip before she continues, “When I was a kid, my foster mom had a boyfriend. A real piece of shit, he used to get drunk and shout at her, and shout at me, until one night, it all came to a head. He got trashed and hit her. She kicked him out, deleted his number, and made sure he’d never come near her again. She told me it was for the best, that she was happier without him, but…you know when someone says something, and they genuinely _believe_ it, they’ve convinced themselves that they actually mean what they’re saying? But you look at them and you _see_ it, you see the lie? That’s what I saw in the Doctor’s face when he spoke about her. It’s the only time I ever saw him as anything less than a monster.”

“She used her power on him,” Stiles says. “Twisted his reverence for her power and for his own success into another kind of love. She made sure he wouldn’t look for her.” He rubs a hand over his jaw. “Fuck. All that time, with no contact with him, and her control still worked on him. That’s…that’s goddamn terrifying.”

He wonders what would have happened if Julia took a different track. If her goal had been different, if she’d been driven by a greed for power rather than her wild desperation for revenge. She could have tried something even more sinister, tried to force the world into subjugation. She might have _succeeded_.

Horror, sharp and visceral, fills him at the thought.

“A few months ago, it changed. I don’t…I didn’t know what happened, but _he_ changed. He was barely around after that. It was always the other Doctor who came down.” 

“When Julia died?” Stiles guesses, and she nods. “So she died and her control on him broke. He knew he was at risk because of her and what she did. That’s why he hired the security. That’s why he’s been disappearing. Preparing for the inevitable.”

“I don’t know if that…helps,” Lori murmurs. “I just thought I should tell you.”

“It helps. It…I guess it doesn’t matter now, not really. She’s dead. She’s gone. But…I still keep trying to understand. Her, and what she did, and why. What happened before I met her. What happened with her and Jakobsson. It…I don’t think I’ll ever know everything, not really, but…it helps.”

Lori smiles softly. “Good.”

Stiles gets to his feet. “It was really good to see you, Lori. I’m glad you’re doing okay.”

She stands and, to his surprise, hugs him. She’s short enough that she has to stretch on her tiptoes to do it and he can feel how scrawny she is, can feel the press of her ribs against his chest, but he can still sense that strength. After a moment, he awkwardly hugs her back, patting her slightly on her shoulder. 

“Thank you,” she murmurs before pulling back. “For everything.”

He offers a small smile in response and turns. Steve’s still in the doorway, watching them quietly; his expression is unreadable, but his eyes are patient. He catches and holds Stiles’s gaze and his intent is clear. He wants to talk.

And Stiles isn’t ready. He has no idea what to say, what he even _can_ say. He’s not ready for this, but he can’t just run away again. 

“Stiles,” Lori calls as he heads towards the doorway.

He pauses, glancing back at her. “Yeah?”

“I told you I’ve been catching up. I saw the stuff about you on the news. I saw what you can do.” She hesitates for a second. “You could have knocked me out and carried me out of that building, but you didn’t. Why?”

“I could have, yeah. But if I’d forced you out of there, you wouldn’t have seen your own strength, you wouldn’t have known your own control. You would have woken up and your perspective would be very, very different. You had to take that step. You had to see for yourself what you could do. You had to walk out of that building; it was how you learned your own strength. It was how you learned how much you wanted to survive. If I’d just knocked you unconscious and dragged you out, that will might not have been there. But when you made the choice? You decided right then that you were going to survive.”

She stares at him for a long moment, expression unfathomable. Stiles shrugs slightly, offers a small smile.

“Besides,” he adds. “It’s like you said. It’s all about _choice_. You’d had control stripped away from you. I wanted to give you some back. I wanted to give you that choice.”

She doesn’t answer, just gives a faint smile, and he turns again, heading towards Steve. He steps to the side, hand holding the door open so Stiles can slip past him into the corridor, and it’s the closest he’s been to Steve in _months_. The brief brush of warmth, the familiar leather scent of his battle uniform, has harsh, insistent yearning curling in his chest, biting into his ribs until he can’t shake it loose.

They fall into step next to each other. Stiles keeps his gaze ahead, unable to bear looking at Steve when they’re this close to each other, but he can feel the other man’s attention on him. His whole being adjusts, zeroes in on the pull of Steve; he’s like a black hole, sucking in everything around him, sucking in _Stiles_ until his whole universe is centred on Steve Rogers. 

“You got shot?” Steve asks eventually, voice quiet and even.

“A little bit, yeah. Dug up some skin and muscle, but nothing major.”

“I think getting shot is always pretty major.”

“Says the guy who gets shot at on a regular basis,” Stiles points out. “Super serum isn’t completely infallible, you know.”

Steve shrugs. “Haven’t died yet.”

“You and me both.” 

They reach the end of the corridor. Steve offers a polite nod to a couple of agents who walk past and leads Stiles to the right. It isn’t the way to the exit of the base, which is surprising, but Stiles finds himself following all the same. They end up in an empty corridor and Steve abruptly moves, hands finding Stiles’s upper arms.

He’s careful, barely jostling Stiles or his leg as he backs him into a recess in the wall. Stiles’s heart trips up in his chest, adrenaline and anticipation snapping down his spine, and he tilts his head up slightly, opens his mouth to speak –

And Steve hugs him.

Gentle but firm, almost desperate in the way he wraps his arms around Stiles, holds him close. He’s so warm, so strong, solid and familiar, and it shatters something inside Stiles. He’s leaning into the hug before he can help it, fingers scrabbling for purchase on the uniform until he can grip it and pull Steve closer. He rests their foreheads together, a shuddering breath catching in his chest, and Stiles can feel it where their bodies are pressed together. 

Those broad hands drift up to cup Stiles’s head and blue eyes open, staring intently at his face.

“I missed you,” Steve says quietly. “Christ, Stiles, I _missed_ you.”

_I missed you too_ , he thinks. _I missed you so much it felt like I was missing every other heartbeat_. But he doesn’t say it, just clings to Steve’s biceps, feels his emotions tangle and snarl in his chest as he tries to breathe.

“Steve,” he manages, voice low and rough.

“Phil said you refused your badge,” Steve murmurs. 

“Yeah.” 

His nose bumps against Stiles’s, skims across his cheekbone, and his lips are so _close_ , close enough for Stiles to feel his breath teasing across his skin, and it takes every last bit of strength he has left in him not to press their mouths together in a desperate, bruising kiss. 

“I can’t,” he whispers.

Steve closes his eyes. Swallows. “Don’t.”

“Steve. I can’t.”

“Stiles, _don’t_ -.”

“I walked away.”

“And you came back.”

Stiles shakes his head slightly. “I can’t. Steve. I _can’t_.”

“Please.”

It’s barely a whisper, a shuddering plea trembling on his exhale, but he _means_ it, tugs it from the core of his being as he opens his eyes, catching and holding Stiles’s gaze.

And he doesn’t get it. Because he _left_. He walked away. No, he _ran_ , he took Steve’s money and he didn’t say goodbye, just ran and ran and kept running until it nearly killed him. 

It’s been months. Stiles never stopped loving Steve, not for one goddamn moment, but Steve…

After everything Stiles did. After he left, after he disappeared for months, Steve shouldn’t be pleading with him to come home, shouldn’t be asking for this, for _Stiles_ , like it’s something he needs, like it’s something _precious_.

Stiles doesn’t deserve it. And Steve deserves a hell of a lot more.

He reaches up, cups Steve’s face between his hands. “I can’t,” he says quietly. “Let me go, Steve.”

Slowly, the hands fall away from Stiles’s head. Steve takes a step back but doesn’t look away. There’s something in his face, something raw, and there’s strength in that vulnerability, in that willingness Steve has to allow himself to be so open, so brittle and _human_ , where it counts, but it’s too painful to look at. The void inside Stiles yawns open, bleak and vast and empty.

He wants to cry, but finds he can’t.

“I’m sorry,” he manages. 

Steve’s jaw clenches. He looks away for a moment, down and to the right, before he meets Stiles’s gaze again. “You’re still running,” he says hoarsely. 

“You deserve better, Steve.”

“Don’t. Don’t use me as an excuse.” There’s a bite in Steve’s tone, rough and torn ragged, but it smooths out again, his tone even as he repeats, “You’re. Still. _Running_.”

This time, it’s Steve that walks away.

Stiles watches him go, watches the tense line of Steve’s shoulders and the clench of his hands as he disappears down the corridor, and he searches for those tears, claws desperately inside him for the release he needs, but it’s beyond his grasp; another thing lost to the void. 

Sighing, he leans back against the wall. He closes his eyes, rubs a hand over his face. He’s back. He’s _home_. 

And he has no idea where to go from here.

***

People stare at him on the subway.

It’s unsettling. He’s so used to going unnoticed, so used to falling into a pattern of avoiding cameras and attention, so used to just being a ghost, that now he’s not anymore, now he’s allowing himself to just _exist_ , he feels uncomfortably exposed.

Having so many gazes on him makes his skin crawl. He should have expected it. After all, he was Captain America’s boyfriend. He’s the guy who helped Julia Baccari, who then disappeared. He’s the guy who’s been the subject of plenty of speculation about him being a vigilante recently. Of course people are looking at him. 

He’s not a ghost here.

Stepping off the train is like pushing free of the pressure crushing down on him. Relieved, he skips catching the bus like he’d planned, instead walking the rest of the way to Scott’s building. When he reaches it, he pauses for a moment on the sidewalk, gazing up at the familiar, slightly grubby bricks and square, uniform windows. 

He doesn’t know if he’s welcome. He doesn’t know how Scott will react and that…that scares him. He and Scott have always known each other better than they know themselves; they’ve always been a _part_ of each other, Scott and Stiles and Stiles and Scott. Now, he hasn’t seen Scott in months, has no idea what Scott will say or do, whether he’ll even want to see Stiles. 

But he needs to see Scott. Needs to see his face, hear his voice, even if it’s just for a moment before he’s turned away. Desperately, wildly, he needs his best friend. His brother.  
The elevator still hasn’t been fixed; it’s been broken down for years. Stiles makes his way up the stairs slowly, carefully, his leg throbbing with each step. When he reaches Scott’s door, he looks at it for a moment, takes a deep breath, and forces himself to knock, quickly and sharply, before he can back out.

He can hear movement inside, the faint thud of footsteps; he traces the path Scott always takes to the front door, the pattern of creaky floorboards that echo through the small apartment. The familiarity is both reassuring and painful. The door swings open a moment later.

A quiet, sharp exhale. 

Then:

“Stiles?”

Stiles tracks his gaze over Scott’s face. His hair is different; no longer a mop flopping over his forehead and curling over his ears, it’s cut shorter, spiking up slightly, tidier than his former style. He’s been working out; the grey shirt he’s wearing is darkened with sweat. The short sleeves expose a new tattoo on his arm, two thick, solid black bands circling his bicep. 

Stiles swallows and manages a small smile. “Hey, Scott,” he murmurs, voice rough. It cracks slightly halfway through Scott’s name, but he doesn’t care.

Scott reaches out, hands hesitating, just for a second, before they touch Stiles, but then he closes the gap, pulling him into a tight hug. Stiles staggers slightly, hisses in a breath as he puts too much weight on his injured leg, and a quiet, apologetic sound rumbles in Scott’s throat. Neither of them pull away to close the door; they just stay there, right on the threshold of Scott’s apartment, clinging to one another.

He smells the same; like sandalwood, and tea tree and mint shampoo, and the constant, faint notes of coffee and the sharp, clinical scent he carries home from the veterinary clinic. He’s warm, arms solid and as gentle as they are firm as they hold him, one hand cupping the back of Stiles’s neck. He draws Stiles’s head into his own chest, his other hand on his back, thumb stroking reassuring sweeps on his shoulder blade, and Stiles –

Stiles _breaks_.

The first sob tangles in his throat, comes out muffled and rusty against Scott’s T-shirt. But then he cracks open, split open and splayed wide for his whole goddamn _soul_ , raw and angry and bleeding, to come pouring out, and he lets it, cries and shouts and sobs while Scott holds him through it. He lowers them carefully to the floor until he’s crouching with Stiles half sprawled, half hugged in his lap and he keeps clinging to him, keeps stroking circles on his back, keeps that steady, reassuring grip on Stiles’s neck. His mouth presses into Stiles’s hair, tears, warm and damp, streaking across his scalp, but Scott cries silently, shakes slightly with it as he holds Stiles, murmurs quiet, reassuring words in his ear.

And doesn’t let go.

Stiles doesn’t collapse. He doesn’t sleep. But he loses time as he stays there, letting it out, every last bit of it, until there’s nothing left. Until the gaping void inside of him is, finally, beautifully, silent. When he slowly pulls himself back to reality, he feels different. 

His eyes are dry and stinging, cheeks raw from the tears crusting on them. His throat feels sore, his body lethargic, emptied out from all of the sobbing. 

He feels renewed.

“I’ve got you,” Scott’s murmuring in his ear. His own voice cracks slightly, grating from too much use, but he keeps going, keeps up a litany of reassurance. 

“Scott,” Stiles croaks.

The hand on his neck tightens slightly, squeezing gently. “Yeah, buddy. I’ve got you. You’re home.”

Stiles closes his eyes again, sucks in a shuddering breath. He doesn’t have anywhere now. No apartment of his own and no suite to share with Steve. But Scott’s right. 

He’s home.

“Come on,” Scott coaxes, carefully getting to his feet. “You need sleep. We’ll talk later.”

Stiles nods and lets Scott help him up. He hobbles towards the couch, but Scott rolls his eyes, exasperated in a way that’s familiar enough to send a pang of wistfulness through Stiles, and guides him towards the tiny bedroom instead. Stiles sits down on the bed to remove his boots and then crawls under the blanket, sinking into the old, marshmallow-soft mattress.

“Stay?” he murmurs.

Scott doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to; he’s already sliding in right next to Stiles. His arm stretches out across the bed and Stiles pillows his head on it, closing his eyes. 

He’s asleep in seconds.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the delay! Between managing to concuss myself, finishing my BSL course, summer reading and my birthday, writing fell a bit by the wayside, and I'm super sorry that this took so long to upload. Thanks for sticking with me <3

Stiles wakes slowly.

He feels the warmth first, the softness of blankets around him, and smells the scent of shampoo clinging to the pillow under his face. Yawning, he peels his eyes open, gazing at the wall for a few quiet, peaceful moments, before he finally shifts, pushing himself until he’s sat upright.

Scott’s on the floor, sitting with his back propped against the bed, his laptop balanced precariously on bent knees. He glances up when he hears the rustle of sheets, dark eyes focusing on Stiles.

“Hey,” he murmurs. “You’re awake.”

Stiles squints at the window; the curtains are drawn, but harsh, pale light spills through the thin material. “How long was I out for?” His voice is hoarse, rusty from too much sleep.

“Around twelve hours,” Scott replies. “You looked like you really needed the rest.”

_Twelve hours_. Outside of being knocked unconscious, that’s the longest Stiles has been able to sleep in one go for months. No nightmares disturbed him, brutally shaking him back to reality. He feels a little fuzzy, disorientated from having slept for so long, but he also feels better, refreshed. 

“You don’t have work?”

Scott shakes his head. “I called in to take the day off.”

“You didn’t have to do that,” he murmurs.

The look Scott gives him is unimpressed. “My best friend showed up on my doorstep after nearly ten months of him being missing. Yeah, I took the day off work. I was kinda worried that if I left, you’d be gone again when I got back.”

Guilt clenches in Stiles’s chest. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly.

Scott shakes his head and sets his laptop aside so he can climb onto the bed. “Don’t be sorry. Just…don’t disappear again.”

“I’m not planning on going anywhere,” Stiles promises.

He stares at Stiles for a long moment, assessing, but he must see the truth in Stiles’s eyes, must see that he _means_ it, and he relaxes, nodding slightly.

“Your dad is on a flight out,” he says.

Stiles blinks, a little surprised. He feels guilty, worrying his dad this much, and making him catch a flight all the way to New York, but he also feels ready. He wants to see his dad. 

“I didn’t tell anyone else,” Scott adds. “I figured you wouldn’t want them all crowding in at once.”

Stiles shakes his head slightly. “Actually, that’d be…that’d be nice. I’ve missed everyone.” He pauses, picking slightly at a loose thread on the bed sheet. “Allison already knows I’m back. She saw me. She, uh, she walked away.”

Scott’s quiet for a moment, clearly picking the right words before he says, carefully, “Yeah, she’s…she was really worried about you, dude. Allow her some time and space. She let you have yours.”

Guilt prickles at Stiles. He nods. “I’m sorry,” he says. “For just bailing.”

“You needed to do what you needed to do,” Scott replies. “I get that. A phonecall or, hell, a text every now and then would have been nice, but, you’re home now. That’s all I care about.”

Stiles glances at him. “I’m different,” he says quietly. “I’ve…changed. A lot.”

To his surprise, Scott rolls his eyes. At Stiles’s expression, he shrugs slightly, then bumps their shoulders together.

“Buddy,” he says patiently. “No _shit_ have you changed. So have I. That’s part of life: people change.”

“Yeah, but -.”

“Do you remember when we first met?” Scott cuts him off. 

“Of course. We were five and I saw you in the sandbox. You were crying.”

“I’d tried to play with the other kids and had an asthma attack,” Scott says. “So I had to sit out and I felt lonely and fed up. And then you came along, parked your ass next to me in the sandbox, and you were glued to my side ever since.”

Stiles nods.

“Well,” Scott continues. “We’ve both changed a lot since we met in that sandbox, huh? We’ve grown up. Shit changes us. But where it matters, you’re still that same skinny, stubborn kid who’d rather sit with a crying asthmatic than try and play and have fun with the others. Stiles, when I stepped out on that roof, I _knew_ that you were still in there, and I was proven right. You broke out of her control and you stopped her from destroying the city. Because in there,” he taps Stiles’s chest. “You’re still the same you. And I’m still the same me. No matter how much we’ve changed in other ways, we’ve still got that.”

Stiles swallows. “I ran away.”

“I can’t imagine what you went through or how you felt,” Scott replies evenly. “But there’s nothing wrong with running if that’s what you needed to do. What matters is that you came back.”

He sits up slightly. “I won’t lie and say it was easy, Stiles. When you started working for SHIELD, that was hard, because I couldn’t go with you, I couldn’t have your back. But I knew Allison would. I knew you’d be okay. This time, you went where _nobody_ could follow. I felt like I’d lost you. I felt like a shitty best friend because I didn’t know where you were or what was going on in your head. I’ve _always_ been able to do both those things, but not anymore. But I’ve realized something. I’ve realized you’ve changed. You don’t need people to have your back. Doesn’t mean you haven’t still got it, but you don’t _need_ it.

“And that’s okay,” he adds. “Because I’ve changed, too. But it’s not a bad thing, because I also realized that, yeah, you left, and, yeah, I couldn’t help you. But when you came back? When it mattered? You came _here_. You came to me. You let me have your back.” He reaches out, resting his hand on top of Stiles’s. “It’s you and me, Stiles, always. Even when we have our own lives and our own paths, even with how different we are and how much we’ve changed…you’re still my best friend. My brother. And I’m yours. You’ve still got me, Stiles. You always will.”

A lump catches in Stiles’s throat. He has to take a moment, blinking back stinging tears, before he can reply. “Shit, Scotty, did you get that from a Hallmark movie or something?”

He laughs, shoving gently at his shoulder. “Jerk.”

“You’ve still got me, too,” he says. “Always.” 

Scott just smiles. “I know. I’ve always known that.”

Stiles leans against him. He feels lighter, better than he has done in what feels like forever. He’d understand if Scott was upset – he has plenty of justification to be – but knowing Scott forgives him, knowing that Scott’s still here for him…it feels like the first step back on the right path. 

“Speaking of changes,” Scott says after a moment. A little smile is tugging at his lips, a tease of his goofy, ‘I’m-completely-smitten’ grin. “I’m, uh. I’m actually engaged.”

Stiles blinks. “Like… _engaged_ , engaged? Properly, one hundred percent engaged?”

“No, we’re only half engaged, we’re working on the rest,” Scott quips. “Yeah, dude. Ring and everything.”

“I was gone for less than a _year_.”

“Uh huh. And how long did it take you to realise you liked Steve so much that you got all dumbass about it and tangled yourself up over the thought of sleeping with him? And it was only, what, a couple of months before you realised you were ass over elbows in love with -.”

Stiles interrupts him with a snort. “Okay, okay, shut up. Point taken. What’s her name?”

The tease becomes a full-on, Scott-trademarked Smitten Grin. “Kira. She’s…God, Stiles, she’s amazing. You know when you meet someone and you realise ‘holy shit, this is it’? She’s the one.” 

There’s a slight pang in Stiles’s chest, regret and guilt and hurt that he missed this, he missed being there for Scott’s first nerve-wracked date, for his ramblings about the girl he’s seeing, he missed being there for Scott to talk to about each milestone in the relationship. He wasn’t there when Scott was considering proposing, wasn’t there to talk out ideas with him, wasn’t there to give him a pep talk or congratulate him afterwards. Some of the best parts of being someone’s best friend – being there for the best parts of their life – and he’d missed it.

But it fizzles out a second later, replaced by genuine happiness and pride for Scott. He looks so happy, radiating it like sun rays; he’s gonna get _married_ to the woman he loves, and Stiles feels excited joy for him.

“That’s amazing,” he says. “Congrats, Scotty. You got a date set?”

“Not yet. We have to save up. I mean, ideally, we’d like to get a place a little bigger than this, first. But,” Scott adds, grin widening. “It’s not too early to ask you to be my best man, right?”

For the second time, Stiles is speechless for a moment. “Yeah,” he finally manages, a little choked up. “I mean, no, it’s not too early. Of course I’ll be your best man.”

“Cool. You can meet her later. You’ll love her. She really is awesome.”

“What does she do?”

“Well, uh…she’s kind of a superhero.”

Stiles blinks. “She’s a what now?”

Scott grins. “What? You think you have the monopoly on superheroes?” He jokes. “She works for SHIELD, but she’s teamed up with other heroes here and there. She’s a total badass, dude. She’s amazing.”

“I’ve missed hearing you wax poetic,” Stiles teases. “Is she part of Daisy’s team?”

He nods. “Allison introduced us.”

Stiles smiles. It should’ve been awkward, Allison introducing her ex to his new girlfriend, but he knows it was probably as easy as anything. She and Scott are friends and always will be, and there’s no jealousy or animosity there. Even without Scott’s judgement – which is always _excellent_ , especially when it comes to relationships – knowing that Allison likes her enough to introduce her to Scott, Stiles already knows Kira must be really amazing. 

“I’m looking forward to meeting her,” he says.

Scott claps him on the shoulder before climbing off the bed. He grabs two packets from the nightstand, tossing them to Stiles. “I found these in your backpack. Figured you’ll need them now you’re awake. What happened?”

Stiles offers him a grateful nod; his leg is hurting like hell. He takes his painkillers and antibiotics, swallowing them down with a glass of water Scott hands him. “I got shot.”

“Gnarly.”

“Yep. A lot less badass than in the movies, too. I kind of just fell and shouted a lot.”

“Well, not everyone can be a tough cookie,” he replies lightly. “I’m gonna go fix food. Feel free to borrow some clothes. Do you want me to call the others?”

Stiles nods. “Sure. Thanks, Scott.”

Scott heads for the door, but pauses, glancing back. He offers a soft smile. “Welcome home, buddy,” he murmurs, and walks out.

Stiles takes a moment to just breathe. He feels lighter, better, just for being home; just for being around Scott. It’s not the city that’s his home, not really. His home is being around the people he loves. For the first time in months, he feels like he can breathe properly, like a huge weight has been taken off his shoulders.

He showers first and borrows a pair a pair of sweatpants, a Henley, and a sweater from Scott. They’re pretty similar in height – Stiles maybe has half an inch at most on Scott – and their builds aren’t too different either these days, though the clothes still fit a little loosely on Stiles’s hips and shoulders. But they’re warm and they’re comfortable, and they smell faintly of Scott’s deodorant in a way that’s comforting. 

Tugging on a pair of socks, Stiles grabs his backpack and shuffles out into the main apartment. Scott’s in the kitchen, singing off-key as he fries something in a pan, but he offers Stiles a quick grin when he steps into the small space. Unzipping his backpack, Stiles looks at the contents for a moment before coming to a decision.

The clothes go in the trash, the shaving kit following a moment later. The toiletries he sets aside to put in Scott’s bathroom. He leaves the almost empty backpack tucked against the wall and places the knife on the kitchen island before moving to sit on the couch. Scott watches but doesn’t comment, sensing Stiles’s need to not talk about things just yet.

A few minutes later, Scott presses a plate full of grilled sandwiches into his hand, loaded with cheese and meats, before he sits down with his own food. Stiles peels off the crust, chewing on it for a couple of minutes, making sure his stomach is settled enough from the painkillers before he takes a proper bite.

“So,” Scott says. “What did you get up to while you were gone?”

“Not much,” Stiles replies. “I grew a beard.”

“Jesus fuck. How bad did it look?”

“Hideous. You would’ve loved it.”

“Where were you?” he asks.

Stiles shrugs. “Around. I moved a lot. Got the whole backpacking year out of my system, so that’s something I can tick off the bucket list.”

Scott looks down at his plate. “People came to the clinic, you know. The authorities came to ask me some questions, thinking I knew where you were. But, mostly, just total randoms showed up, interested in finding you or learning more about you. They knew I’m your best friend and were looking to find whatever they wanted from me. It’s creepy, dude.”

“I’m sorry,” Stiles says quietly.

He shakes his head. “It’s not your fault. I’m just glad you’re back. Maybe they’ll fuck off for good if you tell them to.”

“Maybe,” Stiles replies. “Or we could just ask Natasha to make them pee their pants.”

Scott smiles. “That works, too.”

Stiles finishes his first sandwich and licks lingering grease off his fingers before tearing the crusts off the second, eating them first. He’s about to take a bite of the middle when there’s an insistent knock on the door. He tenses and holds out a hand when Scott moves to stand.

“Let me,” he says. “Could be anybody.”

“I don’t think someone wanting to hurt us would knock,” Scott points out. “’Sides, it’s just Lydia. Look.” He holds out his phone, open on a security app. He’s had a small, discreet camera installed in the door’s peephole, showing whoever is on the other side. He shrugs slightly. “Like I said, weirdos kept trying to find me. Figured it was worth investing in some security stuff.”

“Sad,” Stiles comments, relaxing again. “I thought the baseball bat system worked well.”

Scott grins. “The bat is still near the door, don’t worry.”

Stiles chews on his sandwich as Scott moves to open the door. Lydia sweeps inside, that unflappable, unmoveable sense of presence she has blowing in with her like a cool breeze, and she walks straight over to the couch. She stands in front of Stiles, her arms folded as she looks down at him. 

She’s wearing a black suit, tailored with high waisted, tapered pants, a white blouse and a black ribbon neck bow. Her hair is tied back in a neat twist on the nape of her neck and she taps the toe of one shiny black high heel on the carpet. She purses her lips as she looks him up and down, assessing. 

“You’re an asshole,” she says finally.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “You look nice.”

“I came here straight from work.”

Stiles glances at her suit again. “Did you get a new job?”

“I’m still teaching until I finish my PhD,” she replies. “I’m just doing some consulting for SI.”

He blinks. “You’re working for Tony?” 

“Technically, Pepper is the CEO of SI, not Tony,” she points out. “And Tony isn’t paying me to work for SI. He’s paying my rather exorbitant fees in return for my consulting services.” She pauses, offers a delicate shrug. “I got tired of him trying to woo me to SI. This was my solution.”

“You’re an evil genius,” he says fondly. “Of course Tony snapped up your offer.”

“He likes people who can keep him on his toes,” she agrees. “You’re still an asshole.”

Stiles swallows. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “For what happened to you. The investigation. I didn’t…I didn’t know that would happen, but I can’t say I wouldn’t have still done it if I _had_ known. I’m so sorry, Lydia.”

Sighing, she sits down next to him on the couch. “I’m not angry about that. It was annoying, but I knew nothing would come of it, and I was right. It didn’t negatively affect my career in the long run, especially as I had a lot of support on my side. Besides, even if it _had_ tanked my career? I wouldn’t blame you. It wasn’t your fault. I’m upset because I _missed_ you, you jerk.”

“I’m sorry.”

Scooting closer, she leans her head on his shoulder. As always, she fits perfectly against his side, and it reminds him of so many times before when they’ve been like this; when she’s falling asleep using his shoulder as a pillow during a movie night, when either one of them have needed the comfort of a friend, when she’s felt particularly tactile and nuzzled into him while hanging out, no matter where they are. Wrapping his arm around her, Stiles feels part of that jagged, raw crack in his chest seal shut, healed and soothed by Lydia’s unshakeable love.

“Do you remember when I was dating Emma?” Lydia asks quietly. “And she cheated on me? I’d never been cheated on before. I’d had my heart broken, but not like that, and I was hurting more than I’d ever thought possible. I messaged you at two in the morning and, even though you had an important exam the next day, you still travelled an hour and a half to come and see me. You didn’t even have to say anything, you just hugged me. The hurt I felt was nothing compared to the comfort you gave me.”

“I remember,” he replies softly. 

“That’s what friends do. It’s what you’ve always done and what you would do for any one of us. But I couldn’t repay the favour. I couldn’t give you the hug and the comfort you desperately needed. It was hard, Stiles, knowing that someone I love was on his own and I couldn’t _help_ him.” Lydia’s voice breaks, just slightly, and she clears her throat, pausing before she continues, “You have people who care about you, Stiles. We wanted to be there for you.”

Stiles swallows. “I didn’t deserve it.”

“Yeah, well, here’s the thing. You don’t get to decide that, Stiles. You don’t get to determine whether or not your deserve my friendship. I do. And you did. You _do_ deserve it. So, suck it up and let me be here for you.”

Stiles feels his mouth twitch slightly, fondness warming him from the inside out. “I don’t have a choice, huh?”

“Nope.”

He tips his jaw slightly so he can kiss the top of her forehead. “Okay. Consider this me officially sucking it up.”

She pats his knee. “Good.” Taking a deep breath, she collects herself and sits up straight. “So, tell me about your adventures.”

“Not really much of an adventure,” he admits. “A lot of travelling, mostly. Seeing the sights, that kind of thing.”

Lydia raises an eyebrow. “Breaking someone’s hands in England?”

He pulls a face. “He deserved it.”

“I don’t doubt that for a second,” she replies evenly. “But, seriously. Where did you go?”

“Everywhere. I stopped in France for a while. I met my great aunt. I spent some time in Arizona to earn some cash. But, mostly, I just kept moving.”

“We were worried about you,” she says. “All of us.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I just needed to get away. I was so full of guilt and I needed…I needed to be alone. I needed to heal.” He shrugs slightly. “It took me a while to realize that coming home was what I really needed in order to heal properly. But the space was good. It helped me to realize some things.” 

“I understand.”

Stiles looks at her, a little surprised. “You do?”

“Of course I do. After what happened with Jackson, after high school, when I left for college, I realized a lot of things about myself. That distance and space was what I needed to work on myself and stop engaging in harmful behaviours, both towards others and towards myself. I’m a lot happier now because I allow myself to be truly and completely me. I’m not saying it’s anywhere near the same as what happened to you, but…I understand, Stiles. I was worried about you and I wish you’d have at least let us know you were _alive_ , but I get that it’s what you needed.”

For a long moment, he just gazes at her, then says, “You know, in another life, I would totally marry you, you know that, right?”

“Sweetheart,” she replies, mouth turning up into a wicked little smile. “There isn’t _any_ life where you’d be able to handle me.”

He grins. “True.”

“For the record, though?” she adds after a moment. “It would’ve been nice if you’d avoided getting shot.”

“It’s not like I was actively seeking it out. And I’m fine. Really.”

She purses her lips. “You and I have vastly different definitions of the word ‘fine’.” 

Stiles looks at her for a long moment, sees beneath the cool exterior to the warmth and concern underneath. It’s clear in her gaze; she’s never been able to mask the emotion in her eyes as perfectly as she schools her expressions. Reaching out, he cups her face gently and holds her gaze.

“I’m fine,” he promises. “And I’m home. I’m not going anywhere. Except out for coffee, with you, whenever you’re free.”

“Good.” Her phone goes off and she slips it out of her pocket, glancing at it. “I have to go. But coffee tomorrow, okay? I’ll pick you up.”

Stiles nods. “Sure.” He watches her get to her feet before adding, “Hey, Lyds?” 

She glances at him. “Yeah?”

“Love you.”

Her expression softens. “I love you too.” 

She bends to kiss his cheek before heading out. Scott had given them some privacy, but at the sound of the door closing, he peers in from the kitchen with an inquisitive expression. When Stiles offers a thumbs up in response, he smiles and joins him on the couch again.

“She’ll never admit to it,” he says. “But she cried a little when she heard you’d left.”

“I’m a real jerk, huh?”

Scott shakes his head. “Not a jerk. You’re an idiot, but you’re our idiot.”

***

Throughout the day, Stiles gets visitors.

Erica and Boyd are the first to arrive after Lydia. The last time he’d seen them was on a subway train, staring at them while they had no idea he was even there, and seeing them again is both a punch to the gut and a huge relief, because this time, they _do_ recognize him. Despite the last few months, despite how much he’s changed, they look at him and they still see _him_ , and that means the world to him.

Erica’s drastically changed her hair, cutting it from long locks to a short bob, shaved with an undercut on one side and blonde curls spilling down on the other, falling to an inch or so above her collarbone. It suits her. Boyd has a new tattoo, a thicket of flowers weaving across his chest, visible over the low V of his shirt; sunflowers and daisies, Erica’s favorites and the ones he got her a bouquet of on their very first date.

They don’t reprimand him or tell him they missed him, because that isn’t what any of them need. Instead, they spend a couple of hours on the couch playing Mario Kart, Erica nestled into his side and Boyd’s arm slung over his shoulder. It’s just like old times and it feels right; it feels like _home_. Before they leave, Erica presses a kiss to his jaw, leaving a red print of lipstick behind, and Boyd claps him firmly on the back.

Malia is next; she hugs him hard, then punches him so gently on his shoulder that it feels feather-light, and then sits with him on the couch, telling him about what she’s been doing. She’s got a new job as an urban park ranger, she’s planning a rock climbing and surfing trip in LA, and she’s saved up enough to upgrade from her crappy studio to a decent apartment in a brownstone renovation. He gets two messages while they’re talking, one from Danny, and one from Jackson.

The one from Danny is nice, welcoming him back and suggesting they meet up to hang out sometime soon. Jackson’s is typical of him.

_Jackson [15:48]: heard you’re back in NYC. I’d tell you I’m always right, but do I even need to? btw, you owe me money_.

Stiles snorts. He sends a message to Danny to schedule meeting up and replies to Jackson’s text with an eye roll emoji. 

Laura calls him, checking in to see how he’s doing and welcome him back. He can hear Cora in the background, calling out “welcome back, loser”, and he’s still on the phone to them when Malia leaves and Derek arrives. He doesn’t say anything, just gazes at Stiles for a long moment, then pulls him into a hug.

Stiles sinks into it. He breathes in the familiar scent of worn leather, Derek’s jacket cold against his cheek, and he stays there, accepting the steady, solid comfort he needs. Neither one of them break the silence as Derek pulls back, shoves a bag full of greasy food at him and Scott, and sits with them on the couch to eat burgers and fries and watch a couple of episodes of a shitty, low budget medical drama show. 

When he’s gone, Stiles allows himself to cry, just a little. He sniffs into his sleeve, full of warmth and a sense of belonging so overwhelming he feels like it’s going to spill out of him. 

“I’ve missed everyone,” he says quietly. 

Scott looks at him. “We missed you too,” he replies. “Are you crying?”

“Little bit.”

He reaches out, patting Stiles on the shoulder. His eyes shine a little, too, but neither of them mention it, and a minute later, Stiles manages to gather himself back together. He’s full of food, love and painkillers, and he’s more than ready for a nap, but the rattle of keys in the door snaps him back to alertness.

“Kira?” he guesses.

Scott glances at his phone to get the time. “Shit, yeah. I lost track of time.”

Stiles looks down at himself. He looks a little scruffy in his borrowed clothes and he knows he probably looks as physically and emotionally drained as he feels. He’d kind of hoped to make a better first impression on Scott’s fiancée, but Scott just gives him a friendly nudge in the shoulder.

“Dude, you’re my best friend. I’ve told her everything about you,” he points out. “She already likes you. Relax.”

Stiles gives him a dubious look, but tries to relax. The door opens and there’s a metallic clatter of keys landing in the bowl in the entryway, soon followed by the sound of footsteps approaching. Stiles starts to get to his feet.

“Hey, no, it’s cool,” Kira says. “Don’t get up. Scott told me you got shot.” 

He pauses, half straightened, putting his weight carefully on his good leg, and looks at her. She’s short and slight and beautiful, with long, glossy black curls draped in a ponytail over one shoulder and dark, almond shaped eyes. She’s taken off her jacket and shoes, left in blue scrubs and pink and yellow striped socks. 

The smile she offers him is a little shy but full of friendly warmth, lighting up her whole face as she extends one hand. 

“Hi,” she offers. “I’m Kira. It’s great to meet you.”

“You too,” he replies, shaking her hand. “You’re a nurse? Scott told me you were on Quake’s team at SHIELD.”

She grins slightly. “Surprisingly, the whole superhero gig doesn’t pay great, unless you’re, like, an Avenger, or you work for SHIELD full time, and I’m not really suited to the spy stuff. All of my heroics are strictly part-time.” 

“I dunno,” Stiles says. “Being a nurse is pretty heroic, too.”

Her smile widens as she waves a hand at him. “Seriously, sit. A bullet to the thigh isn’t something to be messed around with.”

“It skimmed me,” he replies, but obliges, sitting back down on the couch. “It’s not that bad. Hurts like hell, though.”

“Well. Gunshot wounds tend to do that.” 

Stiles smiles slightly and glances at Scott. Within five minutes, he can tell just why Scott adores her, and knows what a perfect match she is for him. He’d missed out on a lot, but seeing the easy, comfortable fondness between them and the blatant happiness on Scott’s face is pretty awesome. 

“Have you eaten?” Kira asks.

Scott nods. “There’s still some leftover pizza in the fridge. Want me to heat it up for you?”

She shakes her head. “I’ve got it. I’m gonna go shower and eat.” She bends to press a brief, sweet kiss to his mouth before disappearing down the hall to the bedroom.

Stiles glances at Scott. “I should probably head out.”

His gaze snaps to Stiles’s face. “And go where?”

“I’ll find a cheap room for the night or something, or stay in a hostel until I can afford an apartment.”

“Or you could stay here. The couch pulls out.”

Stiles shakes his head. “Nah, I don’t want to intrude. You and Kira need your space.”

“What I _need_ is to know that my best friend is safe,” Scott returns firmly. “At least stay here tonight. We can figure everything else out tomorrow.”

He looks at him for a long moment, deliberating, but Scott’s face is set in a stubborn expression he rarely wears, so he relents. “Okay. Thanks, buddy.”

***

The couch is actually pretty comfortable and Stiles manages to find a position that doesn’t make his leg hurt, but he still can’t sleep.

He doesn’t know what to do now. He gave up his search for Deucalion. He stopped running. He came back. He came _home_ , but now he has no idea where to go from here. He needs a job. He needs an apartment, or somewhere to stay that won’t be intruding on anyone, and he needs to pay back the money he took from Steve and borrowed from Jackson. 

It’s not the most thrilling of plans, but it’s all he has.

At six o’clock, he hears movement, and he stays still as soft footsteps mark a path down the hall towards him. It’s Kira; she looks half asleep still, hair a mess and eyes barely slitted open, shuffling into the main room. She reaches out, fingers idly brushing the tall floor lamp by the TV, and there’s a brief, warm orange-gold glow in her eyes, a flicker of a spark, and all of the lights in the room light up at once.

Stiles blinks, staring at the lamp as she carries on walking without so much as a pause, beelining for the kitchen.

“Huh,” he says. “Bet you’re real handy in a blackout.”

She doesn’t jump or startle, just glances at him with a wry smile. “Probably,” she agrees. “Did you sleep?”

He shakes his head, pushing himself up until he’s sat upright. “Couldn’t. So, uh…I’m gonna take a guess and say electrokinesis?” 

She turns to face him properly. “Spot on,” she replies. “Most people assume it’s light manipulation at first.”

“I saw the spark.”

“Huh.” Kira looks at him for a moment, then offers, “Coffee?”

“Please.”

While she fixes a pot of coffee, Stiles shifts until he’s sat with his feet on the floor, providing space on the couch. She carries two huge mugs through and sits down, offering him one of the cups. Stiles takes it – it’s more of a bowl than a mug, and he instantly knows he and Kira are gonna get on fine – and curls his fingers around the ceramic, feeling the heat between his palms. Taking a sip, he ignores the slight sting on his tongue and looks at her in surprise.

“How’d you know how I take my coffee?”

She shrugs. “I asked Scott.” 

It’s said in a quiet, almost shy way, like she doesn’t even think about the thoughtfulness of her own gesture, and Stiles smiles a little. Scott’s the same when it comes to that kind of stuff, incredibly considerate in an understated, modest way, and it’s sweet, seeing how well the two of them fit together. 

Allison was Scott’s first love, his grand love, the vivid splash of color on a canvas, a tapestry of excitement and passion and adoration that, inevitably, faded with time. But he and Kira are more like two puzzle pieces fitting easily together, made for each other, their love lasting indefinitely and unwaveringly. 

Stiles can’t help but think about Steve, his own first love. His grand love. He doesn’t see them as canvas or tapestry; instead, he imagines Steve’s steady, patient hand as he glides pencil over paper, capturing intimacy and beauty in the simplest of things, committing them to art forever. He wonders if it’ll be the same for them, if, now they’re no longer together, time will slowly erase how Stiles feels. He wonders if there’s someone else out there for him, too, someone who fits him as perfectly as Kira suits Scott.

But Scott also suits _her_. They’re made for each other. Stiles isn’t sure he could fit with anyone anymore. 

“Are you okay?”

Stiles blinks, tearing his gaze away from the surface of his coffee to look at Kira. “Yeah. Sorry.” He clears his throat. “So, how does it work? The electrokinesis?”

“I’m immune to electric currents,” she replies, offering a little grin. “So, if you ever need some electrics doing but you don’t want to risk shocking yourself, I’m your girl. I can also absorb, manipulate and generate electricity. Some of that comes easier than the other. I can absorb as much electricity as I like and I can manipulate it without it harming me, but generating it is a little trickier. I can summon small lightning storms, but I can’t maintain them for long.”

“I bet Thor loves you,” Stiles says.

Kira laughs slightly, shaking her head. “I haven’t met him.”

“What else can you do?”

“I’m fast,” she replies. “Faster than the average baseline human, anyway. And I heal quicker than ordinary humans. I can also handle myself pretty well, but I trained for that.” 

“Huh,” Stiles says. “Usually Inhumans tend to have one gift.”

“I’m not an Inhuman. I’m on Daisy’s team because of my abilities, but I was born with them. I inherited them from my mom.” Kira pauses, rubs her thumb over her own wrist in a gesture of self-comfort. “Something happened to her, a long time ago. She has similar abilities to me. I guess they manifested a little differently in me, I don’t know why. She doesn’t like to talk about what exactly happened to her.”

“Does she use her powers?” he asks.

“She used to. She was never a vigilante or anything, but she tried to help people. Then when she met my dad, she stopped, because she didn’t want to put him in any danger.” Kira takes a sip of her coffee. “When I was a kid, I didn’t have much power. It’s developed as I’ve grown older.”

“Huh.” 

She shrugs slightly. “It’s never bothered me a whole deal. Especially when superheroes became such a big thing. I was always kinda weird in high school anyway. Shy, you know? Quiet. And my dad’s a history teacher, so being in a class taught by your parent is always pretty cringe.”

“My dad’s a Sheriff,” Stiles says, smiling. “So I was always the narc’s son during high school. I never got invited to the cool shit because they thought I’d tell my dad and he’d shut it down.”

Kira opens her mouth to reply, but there’s a knock on the door. She gets to her feet and checks the camera alert before glancing at Stiles with a smile.

“Speaking of,” she remarks.

Stiles gets to his feet, following her to the door. She swings it open and greets John with a cheerful smile that instantly tells Stiles that they’ve met several times before, and then his dad is stepping into the apartment, gaze finding him and staying there. Stiles takes a step forward, fiddling with the sleeve of his borrowed shirt.

“Hi, dad.”

John closes the last gap of space between them, engulfing Stiles in a solid, relieved hug. Stiles embraces him back, clings to his dad’s jacket, and lets the familiar warm, grounding contact anchor him. He wants to smile and he wants to cry, but he does neither, just lets his dad hold him. 

“I was so goddamn worried, Stiles,” he says quietly.

Stiles swallows. “I’m sorry.”

He pulls back but keeps a steady grip on Stiles’s shoulders, looking at him. “They told me to be patient. That you needed space. That you’d be okay. But you’re my kid, Stiles. The one person that matters to me most in this whole dam world, and I had no idea where you were, if you were safe, if you were _alive_. You were hurting. My son was in pain and I couldn’t find you.”

“You looked for me?” Stiles asks, guilt gutting him. 

“Of course I did. I’d go to the ends of the earth for you, kid.” 

“I’m…I’m sorry, dad. I just needed to get away. Everything was so…so _much_.”

“I know.” John’s voice cracks slightly and he clears his throat. “Don’t ever do that to me again, Stiles. Please.”

“I won’t. I promise, I won’t. I’m…I’m back now. Properly.”

John exhales shakily, rubbing a hand over his hair. It’s more grey than sandy now, his face a little more lined, from stress more than age, and Stiles feels like a complete and utter asshole for putting his dad through such a massive a mountain of bullshit over the last few months. He follows quietly to the couch, offering Kira a small, grateful smile when she discreetly ducks back towards the bedroom, giving them some privacy.

“I saw you,” John says quietly. “At the grave. Why did you run again?”

“I wasn’t ready,” Stiles replies. “To face you, or anyone. I just…wasn’t ready. But I had to go there. I had to apologize to mom.”

He frowns slightly. “For what?”

“Everything. For letting her down. For letting Julia in, letting her control me, letting her use mom to manipulate me. For everything I did, all the people I hurt. I had to apologize for disappointing her.”

John’s gaze snaps to his face. “Stiles,” he says, tone firm, almost fierce. “Mieczyslaw. She wouldn’t be disappointed in you. _Never_. She’d hate knowing that someone was using you and causing you pain just like Julia did. She’d hate knowing that you were on your own. That you were lost, alone and hurting, and she couldn’t help. She’d want to be there for you. She’d want to protect you, hold you, love you. Just the same as I do, kid.”

Stiles bites down hard on the inside of his cheek, tries to fight back the tears threatening to overwhelm him, but it’s too much. He chokes slightly on a wet gasp and runs his hand across his eyes.

“I don’t know who I am anymore,” he admits, voice splitting down the middle, raw and broken.

“You’re my son,” John replies steadily. “You always will be.” He grips Stiles’s shoulders again, ducks his head until Stiles meets his gaze. “You’re Stiles.”

Stiles leans forward, into his dad’s ready hug, and lets those words sink in, easing some of the fear and pain storming behind his ribs. 

“Someone stole that away from you,” his dad says quietly. “And for a while, you were lost. But you’re home now.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the delay, again. Things are going to be a bit tricky now due to personal life stuff, but I'll do my best to maintain a decent posting schedule.
> 
> Thank you for the comments; I really appreciate every single one. When I'm struggling with motivation or confidence, your comments really inspire me to keep going and remind me of just how much I love writing this series. The support this verse has received means the world to me, so thank you! <3
> 
> Warnings in this chapter for: alcohol, injury mention, knives.

Within twenty four hours, Stiles has a place.

It’s an old brick house not far from Scott’s, divided into six tiny, cheap studio apartments. Stiles’s is on the top floor, up two rickety, steep flights of stairs. The long, narrow space has a single bed, a small dresser and a nightstand tucked up in the far end, by the window overlooking the street. The other half of the room contains a tiny kitchenette, with two counters, one taken up by a sink, and a stove and a microwave. Opposite that is a small nook divided by a curtain; inside is a toilet, narrow sink, and tiny shower station.

It’s not the most glamorous of living spaces, but the rent is cheap until he can afford somewhere better. He can sleep and eat in it, and it’s secure enough, which is really all he’s looking for. After all, he’s stayed in a lot smaller and a lot worse over the last few months.

In less than forty eight hours, he has a job.

He doesn’t plan on looking for work at the bar down the block from his new place, but when he sees a handwritten sign in one of the grimy windows declaring ‘STAFF WANTED’, he ducks inside and enquires. 

The owner, Ray, is a tall, broad shouldered, middle aged man with mousy brown hair peppered with iron grey and a bristly donut beard underneath a narrow, slightly crooked nose. Tattoos cover both arms and hands and more peep out from the collar of his shirt, crawling up his neck. He cleans a glass with a rag as he looks Stiles up and down, pale eyes assessing. 

“You got any experience?” he asks.

“Brief stint pouring pints in Amsterdam,” Stiles says. He doesn’t mention that he only worked the bar for a couple of nights to earn some quick, necessary cash before moving on again.

“You reliable?”

“I need the work,” he replies honestly. “So, yes.”

Ray sets the glass and rag down and braces his hands on the bar, shoulders squared as he looks at Stiles. “I know who you are. You can handle yourself. Can take a punch if you have to.”

Stiles shrugs slightly. “Yeah.”

He knows what Ray means; Stiles isn’t afraid of a confrontation. He’ll be willing to fight to protect the premises if he has to, whether from drunken vandals or robbers, and he has the skills necessary to break up any brawls between patrons if needs be. That, more than anything else, seems to work in his favour, because Ray nods.

“You start tonight. Five on the dot.” He picks up his rag again, tossing it over his shoulder, and disappears into the back.

The first shift is brutal. The place is packed out, mostly full of regulars, and Stiles is on his feet constantly for nearly seven hours. His thigh hurts like hell, throbbing with each step he takes, but he keeps his weight on his good leg as much as he can and pushes the pain to the back of his mind. He learns quickly, adapting out of necessity since he’s thrown in at the deep end, and he manages to find a rhythm that works between serving, scrubbing glasses, and grabbing fresh ice or sliced fruit. 

When he’s done, Ray shoves some cash into his palm, tells him he’ll be on the books starting tomorrow, and sees him out. Stiles limps back to his building, takes nearly twenty minutes to climb the stairs to his room, and once he’s inside, he doesn’t even bother to do his usual lock check; instead, he just about manages to dry swallow his meds and then collapses onto the bed.

He’s asleep in seconds, and he wakes up the next morning to a cold draft whistling through the cracks in the window frame, crustiness at the corners of his eyes, and no memory whatsoever of any dreams. 

It’s _bliss_.

Dragging himself up and off the bed is less pleasant. He strips and takes a moment to check on the wound. Thankfully, despite hurting like hell after last night, it still looks okay. Yawning, he rubs at his eyes to clear away the sleep grit as he shuffles into the little bathroom nook. The shower is old and cranky, the pipes protesting pretty loudly when he twists the rusted handle to turn it on, and the water is like ice, taking forever to warm up. The initial splash of stinging cold on his face does wonders to wake him up properly, though, and by the time the water’s actually tolerable, he’s already washing shampoo out of his hair. 

After drying off, he redresses his thigh and pulls on a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie borrowed from Scott. He doesn’t know if any of his things were salvaged from the ruins of Steve’s suite, but he’s not exactly comfortable saying to Tony: “Oh, hey, you know that time I blew up your building? I don’t suppose any of my stuff survived?” For now, borrowed clothes will have to do.

He has a quick breakfast of coffee and meds, and then braces himself to finally leave the small pocket of sanctuary he’s made for himself. Outside, it’s brutally cold, wind snapping against his face, and the chill makes the wound on his leg sting. Shoving his hands into his pockets, Stiles starts walking. 

There’s no real destination in his mind. He just wants to see the city, to _really_ feel like he’s home; he wants to reacquaint himself with the glass heights and concrete flesh, wants to relearn the true grit of the place, sense the beat of the city’s pulse and feel at one with it again. He walks to Scott’s, but he doesn’t knock; neither he or Kira will be home. Instead, he keeps going until he reaches the subway station, peeling some of last night’s tips out of his pocket to pay for his fare. 

It’s only a couple of stops before he reaches his exit. It’s comfortingly familiar in how almost unpleasantly visceral it is; the stale subway air, the faint tang of metal and electrics on his tongue, mingling with the scent of sweat and perfume, cigarette smoke and old coffee from a hundred, a thousand different bodies. 

It’s home.

When he steps out onto the street, he stops to buy a hot pretzel from a cart, and the splash of warmth and salt on his tongue reminds him of his first few weeks in the city, back when he was a student surviving on street food, burnt coffee and subway maps to get to and from classes. Smiling to himself, he takes another bite as he steps into a hotel.

His dad’s room is on the second floor, so Stiles takes the elevator. Normally, he wouldn’t like to be in an enclosed space with no immediate exit if things turned bad, but, somehow, being back in the city makes him feel a little more relaxed, a little more secure. It doesn’t make much sense, considering it’s where Julia got to him in the first place, yet he feels safer in New York than he did during his time travelling. 

John’s staying in town for a couple of days. Stiles knows his dad wants to stay longer, but he has responsibilities back in Beacon Hills. If he’s honest, he kind of wishes his dad could hang around for a while, too; no matter how old he is or how much more independent he’s become in the last few years, there’s still that instinct to go to his dad when things go to shit, that need for a protective, comforting hug from the one person he knows will always be there for him, no matter what. 

Knocking on the door, Stiles finishes his pretzel and licks his fingertips clean. It swings open a minute later and his dad peers out, still wearing pyjama pants and an old police academy shirt, eyes a little hazy with sleep. Yawning, he steps aside, ushering Stiles into the hotel suite.

“Nice digs,” Stiles remarks. 

John smiles slightly. “Mel booked it for me,” he explains. “I probably would’ve ended up in a dump if I’d been left to my own devices. I was pretty much focused only on getting here.”

Stiles snorts. He’s not wrong; his dad is one of the most logical, sensible people he knows. He’s also terrible at planning and organization, especially in regard to his own interests. Biting back a fond smile, he sits down on the couch, sighing as he sinks into the marshmallow-soft cushions.

“How is Melissa?” he asks.

“She’s doing great,” John replies, using his cane to get to the couch. He’s just got out of bed and his prosthetic is leaning up against the nightstand, the leg of his pants neatly tied off just beneath the end of the residual limb. “She’s just cut back her hours at work, so she’s a lot less stressed. She’s taken up gardening.”

“Melissa?” Stiles repeats dubiously. “Gardening? Dad. She managed to kill an aloe plant. _Aloe_.” 

He laughs slightly. “Yeah. It’s been…interesting. Her tomatoes weren’t too bad, though.”

Stiles watches him for a moment, takes in the soft, fond expression in his dad’s face, and can’t help his own slight grin. “You look smitten.”

He shifts slightly. “Well,” he starts, then clears his throat. “Actually, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that.”

“You and Melissa? Really?”

“While you were…gone,” his dad says carefully. “It wasn’t easy for me. Melissa was incredible. She was there for me. Talked me down when I was stressed. Reminded me that you knew how to take care of yourself, of how much I drummed that into you when you were growing up. We’ve been dating for a couple of months now. Is that…okay?”

“Okay?” he repeats. “Dad, Scotty and I have been waiting _forever_ for you and Melissa to get together. It’s okay. Seriously. She makes you happy and she’s awesome. I couldn’t wish for a better person for you to start dating.”

Tension seeps out of his dad’s posture, relief easing the lines on his face. “That means a lot, kid. Thanks.” He leans back into the couch. “How are you doing?”

Stiles shrugs. “I’m okay. My leg’s healing fine. I got a job. I just had my first shift last night. Bartending, so, pretty physical, but I don’t mind it.” 

“And being back?” John prompts, assessing Stiles’s expression. “How’s that feel?”

He blew out a breath. “Good? Mostly. I guess. I’m glad I’m back. I missed everyone and it feels…it feels like coming back was the right thing to do. I feel safer here.”

“Kinda sounds like there’s a ‘but’ somewhere in there, kiddo.”

“I still feel…” he hesitates, trying to find the right words. “Kinda raw, I guess. Out of place. I knew everything wouldn’t just settle back into normal just because I’m back, but it’s harder than I imagined. I still feel lost.”

John nods, chewing that over. He’s quiet for a minute before he offers, “You could come back with me.”

Stiles looks up. “To Beacon Hills?” 

“Yeah. You’ve always got a room at home, Stiles. You know that.”

“Isn’t that just running away again?”

“I think,” John says gently. “That it’s not so much ‘running away’ as taking time to figure out where you’re at mentally and go from there. It might be good for you to get away from the pressure here for a little while.”

Stiles considers. It wouldn’t necessarily be easier in Beacon Hills. After all, it’s a tiny town where everyone knows him; he wouldn’t be escaping the stares or the judgement. If anything, he’d be facing more of it. It feels like a potential step backwards rather than forwards.

But, on the other hand, his dad is right; taking some time to figure things out could be good for him. And, while everyone knows him, he thinks that the majority won’t treat him negatively, simply _because_ they know him, because they watched him grow up, because his dad is an integral part of the town and therefore so, by extension, is Stiles. It would be good to get away from the pressure of the city, to spend time with his dad in his hometown, where he’s close to his mom and there’s less stress.

If he’s honest, a huge part of him is tempted to take his dad up on the offer, but he knows better than to make a snap decision. The last time he did that, he ended up lost and alone for several months.

“Maybe,” he finally says. “I’ll think about it. Thanks, dad.”

***

He spends a couple of hours with his dad. They grab lunch at a place just down the street from the hotel and then part ways, John due to meet one of his friends in the city and Stiles ready to head back to his place for painkillers and a nap.

He’s just entered the subway station when he feels a sliver of alarm scratch down his spine, the back of his neck prickling with a sudden, undeniable awareness that he’s being followed. He doesn’t change his posture or look back as he joins the tight cluster of people pressing onto the subway car, but as he steps on, he glances at the windows on the other set of doors opposite, allowing himself a brief glimpse behind him in the reflection in the glass. 

Four people directly behind him. A young girl with giant headphones on, chin bobbing slightly to music. Two colleagues dressed similarly in neat suits, talking quietly to each other. A guy in a dark green jacket, casting a disinterested look around him.

_Bingo_ , Stiles thinks.

The train is crowded and there aren’t any seats. Stiles squeezes through the tightly packed bodies anyway, ignoring the annoyed looks and some guy muttering “yeah, clearly there’s gonna be a free seat down _there_ , asshole, that’s why we’re all stood here”. He reaches the other end of the carriage and leans against the door separating cars, tuning out the sensation of cold damp seeping through his sweatshirt. Curling his fingers around one of the poles, he holds on tight as the train pulls away from the station, trying to keep his balance while keeping his weight off his bad leg.

Yawning, he leans a little more into the pole and glances around the train. His gaze slides right over the splash of forest green muddled between blurs of sensible neutrals and darks and vibrant, stark colours, but it’s enough for him to know that the guy had pushed forward slightly into the crowd so that Stiles is still in his eyesight. 

Stiles doesn’t glance that way again, just lets his eyelids droop slightly and listens to the rattle of the wheels on the track, the white noise of people around him and, somewhere in the next carriage, someone listening to music obnoxiously loud. 

When he reaches his stop, he joins the polite but impatient shuffle off the train and tucks his hands into his pockets for warmth as he makes his way out of the station, leaving behind stale, damp air for blistering cold and blustering wind. 

His sweatshirt really isn’t up to the job of protecting him from the frosty snap and he wants to get back to his place as soon as possible to chug down some hot coffee and curl up in bed, but instead, he keeps himself to a leisurely pace, strolling down the sidewalk as he glances into shop windows. He doesn’t look behind him, but that awareness coiling down his spine doesn’t ease, either. As he passes by a row of cars lining the curb, he slips a quick, casual glance into an SUV’s wing mirror. Several feet behind him, behind a small cluster of pedestrians with their bodies bowed against the brutal wind, he catches a flash of dark green.

An old saying of his dad’s rattles through his head: _once is an incident, twice is a coincidence, three times is a pattern_.

Stiles stops to look into a store window. In the corner of his eye, he can see that blur of green stop as well, the guy pausing to check something on his phone as he ducks out of the flow of pedestrian traffic. 

Crouching, Stiles feigns tying his shoelaces as he discreetly palms the knife concealed in his boot, sliding it out of view in his sleeve. When he pushes back to his feet, he does a full 180 and starts walking back the way he came, facing his tail straight on. The man in green doesn’t react, not even to glance up from his phone, as Stiles approaches, which is pretty much just confirmation that as soon as Stiles has gone past, he’ll flip direction as well. 

Instead of carrying on past him, Stiles stops in front of him, pressing in close to crowd him in against the brick wall to their right. 

“Hey, pal,” he says cheerfully. “You got the time?”

The man reacts on automatic, allowing Stiles’s manoeuvre, and he smiles back even as his face tightens at the sudden press of a blade against his thigh. Tucked in as they are, with most of the knife still concealed by Stiles’s sleeve and the proximity of their bodies, anyone bothering to spare them a glance as they walk by will think they’re just having a friendly conversation. Stiles keeps the blade angled so a quick push will sink the tip right into the guy’s femoral artery. 

Smile still intact, Stiles asks, evenly, “Why are you following me?”

“Look -,” he starts. 

He digs the tip of the knife in a little more. “An answer that isn’t bullshit would probably be best.”

The smile on the guy’s face drops and one eyebrow arches ever so slightly, expression shifting to something akin to exasperation of all things. “I’m a SHIELD agent,” he says. “And I’m not afraid of getting fired for breaking your hand if you don’t move that knife in the next five seconds.”

Stiles looks at him for a long moment, then leans closer, discreetly patting down the man’s pockets. It definitely looks intimate and they get a couple of pointed looks from passers-by to remind them that they’re in public, but Stiles keeps going, sliding his hand around until he feels the bulk in the guy’s back pocket. He tugs the badge out and flips it open with one hand, looking at the ID inside.

He knows fakes. He’s been making false IDs since he was a fourteen, after all, and he’s pretty damn good at spotting them. He slides his thumbnail around the edge of the raised silver logo and assesses the lamination on the identification card, then reads the name on it. 

“So,” he says, snapping the badge shut again. He slips the knife smoothly back into his sleeve and holds out the leather wallet. “Agent Luke Emery. Coulson tasked you to follow me?”

Luke gives him a dry look as he tucks his badge away. “He wanted me to keep an eye on you, yeah.”

Stiles gazes at him for a moment, thinking that over, and then snorts. “Son of a bitch. He’s using me as bait, isn’t he?”

He offers a disinterested shrug. “Likelihood is that this Deucalion guy won’t stop trying to get to you now you’re back in the city. Coulson’s hoping that if you lure him out, SHIELD can get their hands on him.” 

Stiles shakes his head. He’s not even slightly surprised. After all, he’s always known that Coulson, despite his bland, pleasant exterior, is a goddamn _shark_ , and no one gets to the kind of position and reputation he holds within SHIELD and the wider intelligence community without being really fucking ruthless when necessary. 

Still. A heads up would’ve been nice.

“Fucking bait,” he mutters. “This is my life now.” He tucks his hands into his pockets and looks at Luke for a moment. “Okay, then, Agent Luke Emery. Want a coffee?”

Surprised confusion flickers briefly across the older man’s face, but, to give him credit, he shakes it off a second later and just rolls with it. 

“Sure. Why not?”

Stiles starts walking again. “There’s a decent place just round the block from here,” he says. “Good coffee and even better central heating. I’m freezing my ass off.”

Luke doesn’t respond to that, but he keeps pace with Stiles. He glances at the other man as they walk. He’s probably a few years older, in his early thirties at most, and he looks pleasantly nondescript, with neat dark hair, a slight kink in his nose that hints to at least one break in his past, and a bland green waterproof jacket over jeans and boots. He stays quiet, hands shoved into his own pockets, as they make their way to the coffee shop, but he’s considerate of Stiles’s slow pace, not commenting on his limp. 

A quiet bell jingles as Stiles pushes open the door to the store. He’s always hated those, especially in the city when they feel so cheesy, but now, after so long away, the sound is weirdly welcoming, as warming as the blast of hot air spewing from the heating system is. Stiles sighs, ignoring the itch prickling across his bare hands at the sudden change in temperature, and casts a glance at his companion as they approach the counter.

“By the way, you’re buying,” he says.

Luke’s gaze slides to him. “Nope.”

“Dude, you’re on an agent’s wage.”

“Which isn’t substantial as you seem to think it is,” he returns evenly. “I don’t make much more than you baby agents make.”

Stiles considers bristling at the ‘baby agent’ remark, or pointing out that he _isn’t_ a SHIELD employee anymore, but ends up just shrugging. “Yeah? Well, I’m broke. Not only that, but I’m indebted to an asshole lawyer _and_ a literal superhero. So I think I win.”

Luke’s mouth tips up into a slight smile. “Alright,” he concedes. “Looks like coffee is on me.”

Stiles looks over the drinks board behind the counter, but ends up asking for his usual coffee order. Luke orders his own and pays and tips without comment, though he does slip a wry glance Stiles’s way as he hands the cash over. He offers a shameless grin in return. 

Once they’ve collected their drinks, Stiles heads towards a table by the window, but Luke stops him with a hand on his elbow. He watches as the other man sweeps a glance around the shop, mentally assessing exit strategies and vulnerable points at a speed which is pretty impressive, and then leads Stiles away from the large glass panels at the front of the store, finding a table tucked towards the back instead. It’s between the counter and the door to the bathrooms, providing both an area of cover and an exit point if necessary.

“Wow,” Stiles says dryly. “You’re a regular Jason Bourne, huh?”

Luke shrugs, sitting down in one of the small armchairs. “Just good at my job.”

“Which is…what? Playing bodyguard to the bait?” 

“Coulson wants Deucalion. He doesn’t want you dead. I’m tasked with protection detail as much as tailing you.” 

“I can handle myself.” 

He shakes his head. “To an extent. But all it takes is one slip up or one bit of bad luck and you’re fucked. That’s why I’m here.”

Stiles doesn’t answer, silently conceding to that point. He curls his fingers around his mug, leeching heat from the scalding ceramic. He’s warmed up considerably, so it’s more of a gesture of comfort than anything, but it helps. He feels grounded.

He watches as Luke shrugs off his jacket, leaving him in a nicely fitting flannel shirt. It shows off what he’d been hiding under the padded coat; he’s probably a couple of inches taller than Stiles and he’s compact, his muscles tight and lean rather than bulky. He pushes a hand through his hair, tugging it into slightly messy dark curls that suit him more than the tidy style, and then leans back, posture slouching into something more casual and self-assured. 

He doesn’t look _different_ , exactly, but it’s hard to put a finger on it. Gone is the average looking, nondescript guy, replaced by someone who is fine as _fuck_ and confident enough to own it in a way that’s even more attractive. 

Stiles stares. “You’re a chameleon,” he realizes.

Luke shrugs. “It’s what I’m best at.”

Stiles thinks he’s a pretty good chameleon. Hell, the last few months of being completely off the radar proves that. He’s also sure he’s got nothing on this guy. He’s never seen a chameleon make it look as effortless and effective as Luke just did.

He narrows his eyes. “You let me see you.”

“I had been trying for about half an hour before that, but you didn’t notice,” Luke replies, a smirk playing on his mouth. “I saw the exact moment you finally made me.”

“In the subway station,” Stiles mutters. 

“I’ve been following you since the moment you left the base the other day.”

Holy fuck. He’s _good_. Unnervingly so. Stiles tries not to let that rattle him, but it’s a pretty bitter pill to swallow, knowing that no matter how good he is at avoiding tails and knowing when he’s being tracked, all it took was someone better than him to throw all of that training out of the window. 

“Why’d you let me make you?”

“I got bored,” Luke replies. “Besides, like you said, you can handle yourself. I don’t see any point in me trying to stay unnoticed. And if you do end up in trouble, I’d rather you didn’t try and kill me because you don’t know who I am and think I’m with Deucalion’s guys.”

“Makes sense,” Stiles agrees. He eyes Luke for a moment. “Why do I get the feeling that you could have kicked my ass back there, knife or no?”

“Probably because I could.” It’s said so casually, so evenly, with such assurance in his own skills that Stiles knows better than to doubt it for a single second.

“What level are you?”

He grins, flashing perfect teeth. “High enough to be assigned to this job. Not just any agent would be tasked with something like this.”

“Potentially bringing in a high level threat like Deucalion?”

“That,” Luke agrees. “And making sure that a former SHIELD agent and associate of the Avengers doesn’t get his ass handed to him.” 

“Well. That’s flattering.”

“Plus, none of the other higher levels would take the job. So I volunteered.”

Stiles blinks. “Okay. Less flattering. Should I be insulted?”

“You used to be in a relationship with Captain Rogers,” Luke points out. “No one wants to be the agent who let Captain America’s former boyfriend get killed on their watch.”

“But you don’t care?” 

“If it happens, it’s because it was beyond my control. But it shouldn’t happen, because I know what I’m doing. Besides, Captain Rogers is still just a man. I don’t tend to hero worship. I’m not worried about his association to this job.”

Stiles considers that for a moment. From anyone else, it would sound arrogant, but once again, he gets the feeling that Luke’s only saying it because it’s true. It’s refreshing, actually. He’s never been one for bullshit. 

“Alright,” he says and sits back, taking a sip of his coffee. 

“You finished playing twenty questions?” 

“For now.”

Luke’s mouth quirks up slightly. “Shame. I was just starting to enjoy myself.”

After they finish their coffee, Stiles makes his way to the subway station, ignoring Luke’s questioning glance. He stays at Stiles’s side, keeping pace with him now Stiles knows his intent, and snags the last free seat on the train before an eager student can elbow her way to it first, ignoring her pissed off remark as Stiles sinks down, relieved to be off his feet.

“When you get shot,” he says to her. “We can talk.”

She eyes him, gauging whether he’s serious or not, and then edges away, perturbed. Stiles tries not to be smug as he settles back, catching Luke’s gaze.

“Well, there’s one perk of being shot,” he offers.

“I’ve been shot three times,” he replies. “So I’m inclined to disagree.”

“I’ve been shot twice. Technically. So I’m only one behind you.” 

“That’s…not a good thing.” Luke stares at him for a moment. “Twice since you joined SHIELD?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s disturbingly frequent. How are you still alive?”

“I like to think it’s a mixture of natural charisma and good luck,” Stiles replies.

He snorts and shakes his head, looking away. He seems to figure out where they’re going before they reach the right stop, but he doesn’t protest, just looks resigned as he follows Stiles out of the station. 

They use one of the concealed entrances to the base. Despite Stiles no longer having clearance, the elevator opens up for them both, and he’s allowed in without any trouble. He gives a cheerful smile to the camera as they descend smoothly into the bland concrete bowels of SHIELD HQ. 

Unsurprisingly, Agent May is waiting for them when the doors open again. The look she gives Luke is completely neutral, yet it still sends a shiver down Stiles’s spine, and he has to give the guy props for managing to look unaffected by it.

“Stilinski,” she says. “Your clearance was revoked. You shouldn’t be here.”

“But you let me in anyway,” he points out. “So someone here likes me.”

“Why are you here?”

“I need to see Coulson.”

May folds her arms and looks at him, silent. A few tense seconds tick by before Stiles relents, unable to stick out the quiet.

“Do I have to bat my eyelashes?” he asks. “Use some of the old Stilinski charm?” 

A single arched eyebrow is enough to convey exactly what she thinks of that, but he’s almost certain he can see a slight twitch of her lips as she turns away from them.

“Follow me,” she says over her shoulder, then adds, “Agent Emery, administration are waiting for your report.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he replies, cutting down one of the side corridors.

Stiles watches after him, not too surprised to find that Luke’s an obedient SHIELD soldier, the kind that he himself probably should’ve at least tried to be during his brief stint as an agent. Biting back a wry smile, he follows May, and manages to hold back from spilling words out to fill the silence as they walk. 

Still, when they reach Coulson’s office, he still can’t stop himself from quipping, “Always nice chatting to you, Agent May.”

This time, there’s _definitely_ a smile on her face as she turns and walks away. Stiles counts it as a victory. 

He knocks on the door and hears Coulson call him through just a moment later. Pushing inside, he lets the door swing shut behind him before limping his way over to the desk. He settles into the armchair opposite Coulson, leaning back until he’s comfortable.

“By all means,” the Director says, tone completely neutral. “Make yourself at home.”

Stiles doesn’t bite. Instead, he says, “So, kinda would’ve been nice to be told I’m bait.”

“I didn’t deem it necessary.”

“Really?” Stiles asks. “You didn’t think it was necessary to tell me you planned on dangling me out as bait?” 

“I knew you would figure it out eventually. Perhaps not this quickly, but I guess I have Agent Emery to thank for that.” Coulson leans forward slightly. “Stiles, I wasn’t _dangling_ you out. You were doing exactly what you were going to do regardless of what I told you. The way I see it, nothing would change; either you would go about your life with the knowledge that SHIELD were keeping an eye on you, or you would go about your life in an identical manner, simply _without_ that knowledge. What difference does it make?”

“If I’d known that was your plan, I would’ve offered to help,” Stiles points out. “I can work with your agents. If Deucalion comes for me, I would know that SHIELD are nearby, and act accordingly.”

“Except you decided to resign,” Coulson replies. “Which means you declined the opportunity to work with SHIELD.”

Stiles stares, thrown off guard. Coulson holds his gaze, completely, unapologetically calm, and, not for the first time, Stiles is struck with the thought of how terrifying Coulson would be if he ever lost his temper. 

He’s surprised and kind of annoyed by how easily Coulson has penned him in with this. He knows the older man can be ruthless and manipulative when he wants to be, and he knows that Coulson isn’t doing it to be an asshole, but because he genuinely wants Stiles to have a home with the team. It’s not exactly a secret that Coulson has a tendency to adopt lost, hurt strays, like Agent Johnson and Agent May. It shouldn’t be that much of a surprise that Coulson is being particularly stubborn on the issue of Stiles’s resignation.

But that doesn’t mean he likes it.

“I bet you’re a beast at chess, huh?” he remarks.

Coulson offers a bland smile. “I have no idea what you mean.”

Running his tongue over his teeth, Stiles considers his options. He could give in and take his badge back, since it’s his best way of making sure he can help take Deucalion down, especially if the fucker tries to have him assassinated again. Or he can let his own stubborn streak rear its head and walk away, just to be contrary.

Lydia flashes through his head and he smiles. Of course, he’s always, _always_ found there to be a third option, even if it means being just as slippery and calculated as his opponent to get there. It’s why he’s always been savagely good at chess, too. 

“I’m not taking my badge back, Coulson,” he says, watching surprise flicker briefly in the other man’s eyes before he masks it. “But I _will_ consult for SHIELD on a temporary basis, in order to take Deucalion and his operation down.”

A chuckle startles out of Coulson. He shakes his head, more than a little bemused. “It’s very rare for SHIELD to have consultants on their books. Our last one was Iron Man, before he officially joined the Avengers. Usually we accept consultants who have something significantly useful they can provide.”

“Okay, first of all, ouch. Secondly, sure, I’m not the biggest fish in the talent pool, I get that. But Deucalion is focused on me. That makes me pretty useful to SHIELD.”

He nods slightly, acknowledging that point, and sits back, gaze fixed on Stiles as he considers it. Stiles simply waits, hoping like hell Coulson won’t call him on his bluff. If he says no, Stiles will have no choice but to walk away now, and he knows SHIELD is his best bet if Deucalion or his team come looking for him again. He wants this over, once and for all, and he’s aware he won’t be able to manage that alone.

Finally, Coulson nods. “Alright,” he agrees. “Welcome on board, Stiles. You’ll still require a consultancy fee, however.” 

“Like I’m going to turn down money,” Stiles points out. “I want fifty percent of the rate you usually pay consultants.”

“Twenty five,” he counters.

Stiles raises an eyebrow. “Okay, then. Sixty.”

“I don’t think you understand how negotiation works.”

“I went to the _fuck you_ school of haggling,” Stiles replies evenly. “Sixty. Take it or leave it.”

This time, he’s almost certain that Coulson will actually call him on his bluff, but instead, he just smiles, small and sharp.

“Deal. Welcome back, Stiles.”

***

Lydia shows up at his door three days later.

When he steps aside to let her in, she takes a tentative step forward, casting a glance around the tiny apartment. Her nose does a little wrinkle before she smooths out her expression again. Stiles closes the door and turns to her, shrugging slightly at her raised eyebrow.

“It’s…cozy,” she offers.

“Yeah. Real homey.” Stiles agrees. “Might not be much to look at now, but I’m thinking a nice plant will jazz the place up a bit.” 

“Sure. Maybe.” 

He bites back a grin and gestures towards a tiny wicker chair he’s managed to squeeze into the practically non-existent kitchen space. “Wanna sit down?”

“I’d really rather not.”

He snorts. “So, what’s up?”

She picks up the coat tossed over the counter and throws it to him. “Bundle up. I’m making lunch.”

Stiles slips the jacket on. He’d got some clothes, just basics and warm outerwear suitable for the winter weather, and the coat is thick and well insulated. He zips it up and wordlessly takes his gloves when she holds them out.

“For who?” he asks as he tugs them on.

“You, Scott and Kira, and Allison,” she replies.

He winces slightly. “Maybe not the best idea. I’m trying to give Allison her space.”

Lydia rolls her eyes. “Boring. Let’s go.”

Knowing better than to argue, Stiles follows her out of the apartment, locking up behind him. There’s a taxi idling by the curb and Lydia smoothly slides in, scooting over to make room for Stiles as he climbs in after her. She tucks one high heel daintily behind her other ankle, keeping her knees tucked together as her skirt rides up, and Stiles smiles slightly as he closes the door and slouches in his seat, getting comfortable.

“How’s consulting?” he asks.

“Busy. But productivity in SI’s R&D department is up thirty percent. I fixed some math on one of the company’s clean energy outreach projects this morning; they’re trying to balance the potential of using artificial intelligence in microgrids with the financial viability of implementing it on a large scale.”

Stiles groans. “Too early to mention math.”

She slides a glance his way. “You look tired. What time did you get in last night?”

“One,” he replies. “I stayed behind to help clean and lock up after closing.”

“You’re getting old.”

He huffs. “I’m not old. I’m just wiped out from the meds.” 

“So old,” she teases.

He sticks his tongue out in response and the childishness of it surprises a short, gleeful laugh out of her. He grins back and her face softens, eyes still crinkled slightly at the corners, and fondness, warm and all consuming, unfurls in Stiles’s chest. 

When they get to Lydia’s apartment, she points to the couch, expression daring him to argue. He doesn’t, just obediently sits down and makes himself comfortable, taking the weight off his bad leg. She smooths her hand affectionately over his hair as she walks past on her way to the kitchen.

He’s always liked Lydia’s apartment. It’s got beautiful views of the city and it’s decorated with a perfect balance between clean, modern stylishness and warm, comfortable homeliness. It’s very _Lydia_ , from the tasteful touches of marble grey and rose gold in the décor and beautiful piece of art hung up on the slim brick divider separating the kitchen from the main room, to the thick stack of textbooks and student papers scattered across the coffee table and fluffy bunny slippers left discarded by the couch. It always makes Stiles feel comfortable and at home. 

He listens to her move around in the kitchen, murmuring under her breath to herself; it’s a habit he’s used to, her rattling off ingredients and steps absent-mindedly as she cooks, but he never fails to find it ridiculously endearing. After a few minutes, she raises her voice to speak to him as she works.

“How’s your leg?” 

“Peachy,” he replies. “Getting shot sucks.”

“A revelation to us all,” she says dryly. “Maybe choosing a career that involves a significant amount of getting shot at wasn’t the best call.”

“Hey, I’ve retired from that life,” he points out. “I’m a bartender now. So there’s at least a ten percent reduction to the risk of me getting shot.”

She’s quiet for a couple of minutes. He thinks maybe she’s distracted with cooking, but then he hears the soft tap of footsteps on the polished floorboards. She’s taken off her heels, leaving her in stockinged feet, and she stops by the couch. She rocks one foot back and forth from heel to ball, toes digging into the plush rug splayed beneath the coffee table.

“Honey,” she says carefully. “I know you too well to believe that.”

He frowns. “Believe what? That I’m less likely to get shot? Because that’s really not reassuring.”

“That you’ve retired,” she clarifies, blithely ignoring his attempt at deflection. “For good, I mean. You’re not the kind of person to walk away from that life.”

“You think I’m going to go back to SHIELD?” he asks evenly, trying to squash the surge of annoyance inside of him. 

It seems that, lately, a lot of people keep assuming they know him and what he’s going to do, and even from one of his closest friends, it chafes a little. But Lydia shakes her head.

“Not necessarily. But I’ve known you for years, and I know you won’t stop trying to help people. Because you _can’t_. You’re not that type of person.” She pauses before adding, “That’s not a bad thing, Stiles. It’s one of the many reasons I love you, and I’ll support you no matter what you decide. But I want you to be okay.”

The irritation fizzles out, soothed by the quiet, fierce note of concern in her tone. “I will be,” he promises. “I always am.”

“I know you are. That’s what scares me most.” 

“Lydia -.”

“Two of my best friends are in the secret agent business, even if one of them insists he’s retired,” she says over him. “I’m used to worrying. And it’s okay, for the most part, because I get it. I understand. You and Allison are so similar in a lot of ways, including your insistence on putting yourselves as a shield between humanity and anyone or anything that might want to do us harm. I get it, okay? Just don’t make me worry on purpose, by…say, running off without a word to anyone again. Because I won’t just take it. You know I won’t.”

Stiles stares at her for a moment. “I won’t,” he says quietly. 

She nods. “Good.” She starts to turn, but he gently catches her wrist, pressing a kiss to her knuckles.

“You know, somehow, you’re more terrifying than any assassin I’ve ever met,” he informs her seriously.

She smiles, quick and sharp. “Good,” she repeats, and bends to press her own kiss to his forehead before she returns to the kitchen.

Stiles gets a little more comfortable on the couch, resting his head on one of the huge, ridiculously soft pillows she has lining it for decoration. He closes his eyes and listens to the quiet, off tune melody of her humming as she cooks. It’s terrible but oddly relaxing and he allows himself to just drift, carried off to somewhere halfway between sleep and alertness.

It’s the sudden sound of the apartment buzzer going off that makes him snap his eyes open again, yawning slightly. Lydia cuts through the room quickly, wiping her hands on her apron before she presses the button on the system to see who it is.

“It’s me,” Allison’s voice, small and tinny, crackles over the intercom.

Lydia snaps her thumb against the door release. “Come on up,” she says. 

Stiles sits up straighter, a knot of nerves snarling up his chest. She turns to him, a glint in her eyes that he really doesn’t like, and the sinking feeling in his gut is confirmed when she offers him a smile a second later.

“I really should go freshen up,” she says. “I won’t be long.”

He narrows his eyes at her. “You don’t fool me.”

“I wouldn’t dare try,” she replies with a grin, heading towards her bedroom. 

“You’re a menace,” he calls after her.

“Thank you!” Her voice drifts back to him a second before the bedroom door closes.

Stiles digs his thumb into the palm of his other hand, trying not to get too keyed up. He eyes the window leading out to the fire escape, considers whether he’d be able to climb out and down to ground level without fucking up his leg, but decides that would probably be a little dramatic. Instead, he picks up one of the cushions, fiddling with the zipper on it as he counts the seconds ticking by.

The door to the apartment swings open. Allison steps inside, gaze instantly landing on Stiles, and she pauses for a split second before gently nudging the door shut with her foot. There’s a bottle of wine tucked into the crook of her arm and her keys are half dangled out of the front pocket of her jeans from haphazardly being shoved there. 

It’s not exactly secure, but then, he feels sorry for anyone who makes the mistake of trying to steal Allison’s keys.

Clearing his throat, Stiles lifts his hand in an awkward wave. “Hi.”

Allison’s gaze flicks over him. “Hey,” she replies. 

There’s no tension or animosity in her voice. Her tone is pleasant, _civil_ , and it needles at him because it’s so nice it’s empty. He can’t remember her ever sounding so indifferent towards him before and it stings.

She hangs her winter gear up and leaves her boots by the door, then starts towards the kitchen, the bottle of wine in her hands. Stiles gets to his feet, following.

“I’ll, uh,” he clears his throat. “I’ll…help.”

“Thank you,” she replies evenly. “After all, everyone knows it takes two people to pour wine into some glasses.”

He winces slightly. _There’s_ the bite he’d been expecting. It doesn’t chafe any less than the bland pleasantry of before. Instead of rising to it, he grabs three glasses from the cupboard, lining them up on the counter, and hands Allison the corkscrew.

She opens the bottle with quick precision, the pop of the cork so loud in the silence of the kitchen that Stiles almost flinches. He watches as she pours wine into each glass. Red. He peers at the label. _Merlot_. 

Lydia steps into the kitchen, completely unconcerned as she reaches for her glass of wine. She takes a sip and meets Allison’s gaze, calm in the face of the raised eyebrow she receives.

“I told you I needed space,” Allison says. 

“You did,” Lydia agrees. “But that was boring, and I hate being bored, so I decided it was best for my own mental wellbeing to make sushi.”

“Damn it, Lydia -.”

“Besides,” she interrupts. “I know you missed him. _You_ know you missed him. We’re both aware you want to cry and hug him and maybe threaten to kick his ass a little bit, so avoiding him is pointless.”

“ _Lydia_.”

Stiles fiddles with his glass, rolling the delicate stem between his palms as he looks between them, feeling awkward and wrong-footed. They’re talking about him, yet he feels like he’s intruding, stuck in the middle of their mutual irritation.

“Look,” Lydia says finally. “I’m sorry, but I’m also not sorry, because I need this. I need all of us to be okay.” She pauses, tips her chin up as if in fierce defiance of her own vulnerability as she adds, “It wasn’t easy for me, alright? I nearly lost my best friend. I _did_ lose one of my closest friends for a while. My career and reputation was on the line and our friendship group was fractured. It was awful. It was really fucking awful and I had to be strong, or at least pretend to be, because that’s what I do. Because that’s what you all needed me to do. But now Stiles is back and I just…I just need for us all to be okay. So, please, do me one favour: sit down and eat some damn sushi.”

Allison and Stiles both blink. He opens his mouth to say something, to apologize again, but she doesn’t look at him. Instead, her gaze is on Allison, watching as the other woman’s face softens, understanding and a touch of guilt gentling the edge out of her expression.

“Okay,” she agrees softly. 

Lydia nods once. “Okay,” she repeats.

The buzzer goes off and Stiles bites back the urge to sigh in relief. The tension in the air feels like thick cotton in his lungs and he desperately hopes that Scott and Kira’s arrival will smooth over some of the lingering animosity. 

Lydia slips away to let them in. Stiles rubs slightly at the back of his neck, wanting to say something but fully aware that nothing he can say will help the situation right now, so he stays silent. He can sense Allison watching him, but he doesn’t have the nerve to meet her gaze. 

Scott must sense the awkwardness the second he enters the kitchen, but he just grins easily, greeting Stiles with a gentle clap on the shoulder as he wraps his other arm around Allison in a quick hug. Kira gives them both a warm hug and a friendly smile as Lydia pours wine into two more glasses, sliding them across the kitchen island towards the couple.

They seat themselves around the table, exchanging slightly hesitant small talk as Lydia flits back and forth from the kitchen, setting down a tray of dishes – soy sauce, pickled ginger, wasabi – in the centre of the table before surrounding it with different types of vegetable sushi; chargrilled red pepper and carrot rice nigiris, vegetable and red pepper and cream cheese Cali rolls, and cucumber and red cabbage hosomaki rolls. She’s made some with tuna and smoked salmon for Scott, Kira and Stiles. 

It isn’t the most comfortable lunch he’s ever had in his life. It’s nice; civil, and comfortingly familiar, sitting around a table eating ridiculously good food courtesy of Lydia. But it’s impossible to ignore how _different_ it also is, feeling so unsettled and unsure of himself, aware of Allison’s prickling anger towards him. Her replies to conversation are polite but curt and it’s awkward.

Dipping a hosomaki roll into the soy sauce, Stiles pops it whole into his mouth, chewing and swallowing before he asks, “So, uh. How are things with Bucky and Natasha?”

Allison picks up her glass of wine, taking a sip. “We broke up a couple of months ago,” she replies evenly. 

_Shit_. “Oh,” he manages. “That’s, uh…sorry. I didn’t know.”

“You would have done,” she says, tone still completely steady, but he can hear the heat simmering underneath it, threatening to boil over. “If you’d been here.”

She sets the glass back down a little too hard and it teeters slightly, threatening to careen over the edge of the table. Without looking, Lydia reaches out and plucks it up before it can smash or spill a single drop of wine, deftly moving it away from Allison. Then, without a word, she goes back to eating.

Stiles winces. “Allison, I…I’m sorry.”

She stares at him for a moment. “Do you even know what you’re sorry for?”

“When I…” he pauses, swallows before he forces himself to continue, “When I stabbed you, fuck, Allison, I hated myself. Knowing I’d hurt you, that I’d nearly killed you, I will never forgive myself for what I did. Never.”

She chuckles, soft and bitter. “I never blamed you for stabbing me, Stiles.”

“I know you’re angry with me -.”

“Do you?” she cuts him off. Her tone could crush diamonds. “Do you have _any_ idea how I felt? How it made me feel to realize that Julia had been controlling you for all that time and I never even noticed? I let you down, Stiles. I failed you. I didn’t figure it out and you suffered for it. I couldn’t find you, I couldn’t help you, and that’s something _I’ll_ never forgive myself for.

“And then after. You left and I felt…I felt so fucking useless. I was stuck in hospital, in pain, unable to look for you. I knew you were hurting but I couldn’t find you. I couldn’t _help_. I had to rest; I couldn’t help SHIELD, or the Avengers, because I was injured. It took me so long to recover and even longer to build my strength and stamina back up so I could go back to doing the job I loved. I went through hell, Stiles. Things with Bucky and Natasha went to shit and I couldn’t turn to you, because _you weren’t there_. I didn’t even know if you were alive. So, yeah, I’m angry with you. I’m angry because you’re alive, because you’re back, you’re _here_ , which means I can _be_ angry now.”

Stiles’s breath leaves him in a sharp, harsh punch of air. He’s on his feet before he even thinks about it and she gets to hers, body braced as if to fight, but instead she just grabs him, pulling him into a hug so hard that he winces. He wraps his arms around her, holding her just as tight, just as desperately.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I’m so sorry.”

“You’re an asshole, Stiles.”

“I know.”

She pulls back, avoiding looking at him as she sits back down, rubbing at her face to quickly remove the evidence of tears. Stiles feels torn open, gutted by guilt and regret, and he sinks back into his own chair, appetite gone.

Scott clears his throat. “So,” he tries. “Um.”

Lydia meets Stiles’s gaze, a sly gleam in her green eyes. “How about those Red Sox, hm?”

He laughs, unable to help it, brittle and unexpected, but he’s relieved when Allison joins in. Most of the tension slips away, but Stiles’s stomach feels knotted up, so he doesn’t eat anymore sushi. As soon as lunch is over, he helps Lydia clear the table, carrying empty plates out into the kitchen. Silently, Allison joins them, placing the wine glasses in the dishwasher.

“Allison,” he says quietly, catching her gaze. “I…I really am sorry. I get that you need space, but I just…I’m so sorry. I hope -.”

She cuts him off by suddenly shoving a Cali roll into his open mouth. He bites down automatically, twitching slightly in surprise, and she looks at him a little wickedly, dimple flashing as she holds back a smile.

“We’re okay, Stiles.”

***

The door to his apartment is slightly ajar when he gets back. 

Adrenaline, quick and sharp, snaps through him, coiling around his spine as he braces himself to fight, even though, logically, he knows anyone who might actually pose a threat wouldn’t be stupid enough to leave the door open. 

He’s careful as he steps inside, ready to duck or defend himself, but he relaxes when he sees Luke settled in the wicker chair. He’s tipped it back, his legs splayed on the bed as he stretches out, and Stiles raises an eyebrow as he closes the door behind him.

“You’re paying to fix the damage to the locks,” he says.

Luke just smirks. “Got a gift for you,” he replies. “From Coulson.”

He tosses something into the air and Stiles catches it without thinking. It takes him a moment to register the sensation of cool leather against his palms and he looks down at the badge, completely unsurprised that Coulson’s managed to push a damn badge on him after all. He flips it open, revealing the SHIELD logo and a new ID card; it’s almost identical to his agent badge, except when he looks closer at the job title, he huffs a disbelieving laugh, shaking his head slightly.

_SHIELD Consultant_.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings in this chapter for: violence, mention of blood, alcohol, guns, death, gore, graphic descriptions of blood, gore and wounds, mild sexual content.

Two days later, Stiles visits the tower.

He hadn’t been expecting a site of destruction, exactly; after all, Tony isn’t the type of person to wait around, and he has the financial means to have started rebuilding right away. But he had wondered if maybe Tony would have knocked the ruins down completely and sold the land, that maybe the team were staying living apart again, and had a base elsewhere. At the very most, he’d expected the tower to still be in the process of being rebuilt.

Instead, a tall, gleaming building pierces into the sky, the smooth glass and steel catching and fracturing the rays of winter sunlight. It looks similar to the old tower, but Stiles can see the slight differences; the whole building still screams _Tony Stark_ , but he’s toned it down a little, made subtle adjustments in silent acknowledgement of the team’s preferences. At the top, standing proud above the city, is the Avengers ‘A’, but this time, it doesn’t look like the remains of another word: it stands there on its own, a symbol and a promise.

Stiles wonders how different it is on the inside. He watches a few people in neat suits come and go through the sleek doors; SI employees. It’s like nothing has changed. As if the tower was never blown up and reduced to a charred, empty skeleton. 

Shoving his hands into his pockets, Stiles shakes his head slightly. Tony works damn _fast_.

As if his thoughts have conjured him, Stark himself steps out of the doors, attention on his phone as he tucks his free hand casually into his pocket, walking with a lazy swagger. Stiles knows it’s for show; despite owning SI, Tony rarely uses the main entrance, since he inevitably gets stopped by someone to discuss one thing or another, or hounded by any paparazzi assholes who’ve decided to camp outside the Avengers headquarters. JARVIS must have alerted Tony to Stiles’s presence.

The casual act doesn’t bother him. He likes honesty, likes people who cut through the bullshit to get to the point, but he knows Tony Stark has various masks and personas crafted entirely from complete and utter bullshit. He’s an expert illusionist, adjusting everything about himself to suit his needs and circumstances, to keep people on their toes and from never getting close to the person he actually is. But having got to know that person, the real Stark tucked away behind multitudes of doors and locks, Stiles doesn’t let his illusions annoy him.

“Tony,” he says.

He glances up. “Bambi. What’s up?”

“I came to see the tower.” Stiles cranes his neck to look up at the ‘A’ again. “You finished it pretty quickly.”

“I hired the best of the best and I pay well,” Tony replies. “Besides, it goes a lot faster when you’ve got superheroes to help out with the heavy lifting.”

“Are the team back living here?”

“For the most part.”

Stiles nods slightly. “I’m…” he pauses, swallowing. ‘Sorry’ felt so inadequate, but it’s all he has. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, don’t be. You’re not the first person to blow up somewhere I live, Bambi, and you probably won’t be the last. At least most of us weren’t _in_ there this time.” Tony gives him a friendly clap on the shoulder. “I made a hell of a lot of improvements, too, so she’s better and stronger than ever. I should probably thank you, if anything.”

“Don’t,” Stiles warns quietly. “Don’t act like it’s all okay.”

“Who’s acting? I fight aliens and supervillains on a pretty regular basis. I’ve been beaten, tortured, nearly killed probably a hundred times, and lost plenty of homes. I’ve learned not to sweat the small stuff.”

“Me blowing up your tower isn’t _small stuff_ , Tony, for fuck’s -.”

Tony talks right over him, smooth and unconcerned by Stiles’s irritation. “Hey, while you’re here, I’ve got something for you.”

Stiles takes a deep breath, allowing the brief flash of anger to cool. “What?”

He gives a little jerk of his chin to signal that Stiles should follow him. Together, they head back into the building, stepping into a well-lit, tasteful reception area. A bank of three elevators line the wall behind the long, sleek reception desk; two of them are for employees, but the last one is private, requiring Tony’s thumbprint for the doors to open.

“Avengers and associates only,” he explains as the doors seal shut again behind them, then adds, casually, “You’ve got access, too.”

Stiles stares straight ahead and doesn’t answer.

The elevator starts moving in less than a minute, but Stiles is willing to bet that JARVIS has run additional security tests, from biometric readings to vocal confirmation. Tony knows how to make something private practically impenetrable. 

To his mild surprise, they’re descending rather than going up. When the doors open again, Stiles stares into pitch darkness, before there’s a quiet _hum_ and a series of lights, as one, flare to life, flooding the room with bright, artificial illumination. 

It’s a car lot, of all things. Stiles steps out of the elevator, looking around. It isn’t big; roughly half the amount of square feet as the building above it, which makes Stiles wonder what else is down here to fit the space. 

As if he can read Stiles’s mind, Tony remarks, “This is the first basement. My forge is just through there,” he points to a steel garage door. “So I can accept materials deliveries here, load them up and if I need them in my main workshop, send them up in the freight elevator. There’s a subbasement below this. Avengers stuff.”

There’s a few vehicles parked in the small car lot. Stiles recognizes a couple of Tony’s fancy vintage cars, Natasha’s sleek Lotus and, with a pang, Steve’s motorcycle. 

“This is for Avengers only,” Tony explains. “JARV, show him.”

A large, square hole opens up in one of the grey concrete walls, exposing a secret ramp. Stiles approaches it, peering up at the gap on the other end. Sunlight slits through it, spilling down the ramp towards him.

“Goes up to street level and connects to the roads,” Tony explains. “So Avengers have discreet and private access to and from the tower, especially if there’s an emergency.”

“Who the hell did you have to blow to get permission for _that_?” 

He just offers a lazy grin. “There’s a hanger up top of the tower, too, for the Avengers quinjet.” He shrugs one shoulder. “Like I said. I built her better this time.”

“Okay, I’m impressed,” Stiles allows. “But why are you showing me this?”

“I’m not. I’m showing you that.” 

He nods with his chin and Stiles looks over his shoulder, following Tony’s line of sight. His gaze falls on his motorcycle, the one he’d bought and Tony had upgraded. He’d only ridden it a few times before he’d abandoned it and a tangle of guilt and wistfulness snarls up in his gut.

The quiet rattle of metal draws his attention back to Tony. He’s holding out the key to the bike. 

“I can’t,” he says.

“Why? It’s your bike.”

“It isn’t,” he insists. “Not really.” 

“You bought it.”

“And you upgraded it, which makes it more yours than mine.”

“You bought it,” Tony repeats firmly. “It’s yours.”

“Then just pay me the initial cost of the bike and we’ll be square.”

He rolls his eyes. “You’re aware of how many vehicles I have, right? What the hell would I need with yours?”

“Tony. I know how much those upgrades were worth.”

He flashes his teeth in a quick, amused grin. “Yeah, you really don’t, Bambi. The cost of my labour alone -.”

“Is more than I could ever afford,” Stiles cuts in. “I can’t pay you for the upgrades.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Then I can’t accept it.”

“Those months away really didn’t mellow out that stubborn streak, huh?” Tony drawls.

“Fuck you.” There’s no bite in Stiles’s tone, and Tony smiles.

“Fine,” he says. There’s a gleam in his dark eyes that makes Stiles’s suspicious. “Then we cut a deal.”

Stiles hesitates. “What kind of deal?” he asks cautiously.

“You can’t afford to pay for the work I did on the bike,” Tony says. “So, take the bike and work off the debt.”

“How?”

“However I see fit,” Tony replies. “Could be bodyguarding, or chauffeuring to give Happy a break. Some SI work. Helping me out in the workshop when I need an extra pair of hands.”

Stiles knows what he’s doing. Tony’s aware that trying to draw Stiles back into the fold, trying to get him to start hanging around the workshop again, will never work, that Stiles won’t ever let himself get that close again after the way he betrayed them. He doesn’t get _why_ Tony’s insistent on giving Stiles that trust again, the kind of trust that very few people ever receive from him, to be allowed into his workshop and around his most important and secret work, but he can appreciate the calculated manipulation of his plan. Like Coulson, he’s boxed Stiles in and trapped him right where he wants him. 

“Motherfucker,” he says. “Taking a leaf out of Lydia’s book, huh?”

“She’s cutthroat,” Tony replies. “I appreciate cutthroat.”

Stiles looks away, clenching his jaw. If he refuses the bike, he knows Tony will just keep trying to give it to him, insisting that it’s his; Tony’s stubborn streak is just as dangerous as Stiles’s own. He could call Tony’s bluff and accept the bike as his, leave with it and say ‘fuck you’ to Tony and the debt for the upgrades. 

But his own guilt won’t let him do that.

And Tony knows it just as well as Stiles does.

“Mother _fucker_ ,” Stiles repeats vehemently. “Fine. But I’m not just gonna do whatever you want until you decide the debt is cleared. I want a contract, and I want the time I work for you capped at six months. I choose my hours and I get to choose what jobs I do for you.”

“Of course,” Tony replies mildly. “I’m not an asshole.”

“And I’m not accepting the bike until I’ve cleared the debt.”

He rolls his eyes. “Bambi -.”

“I can’t ride it right now anyway,” Stiles points out, gesturing to his leg. “It’s safer here than anywhere else.”

Conceding that point with a slight twitch of his shoulders, Tony starts walking back towards the elevator. “Want a tour?”

“Of SI?” he replies evenly. “You can show me whenever you want me to do work there.”

“Of the Avengers areas.”

“No. There’s nothing for me there anymore.”

Tony looks at him for a long moment, but doesn’t push it. They ride the elevator up in silence, but as they step out into the reception, Stiles pauses, glancing at the older man.

“Why?” he asks. “Why are you so insistent on trusting me, letting me back into your workshop and around the suits? After what I did…”

“Because you don’t trust yourself,” Tony replies. “Which says a lot. Besides, truthfully, I _don’t_ completely trust you. What happened wasn’t your fault, but I’m protective of my shit, and you already fucked it up once.”

Stiles winces. 

“But what will not trusting you achieve? Nothing. So I choose to trust you. I _choose_ it. And that puts me and you back in control, not Julia Baccari, and not what happened.”

Stiles’s teeth click together as his mouth snaps shut. He has no idea what to say to that, what he even _can_ say to that, how to put words to the knotted mess of respect and surprise and guilt tearing and tangling between his ribs. 

Tony just turns away, attention back on his phone. “I’ll see you bright and early on Monday, Bambi.”

***

Over the next couple of weeks, Stiles settles into a routine.

He works at the bar, taking extra shifts whenever they’re available; he needs the money. It’s exhausting work, but he likes that. He can lose himself in the physicality of it, the rhythm of serving, cleaning, scrubbing. He learns to recognize the regulars by face, memorizes their names, and, somewhere along the line, he becomes part of the scenery, welcomed by the other staff and customers alike. It’s nice.

Tony keeps him busy, too. Sometimes, he asks Stiles to accompany him somewhere as a bodyguard. It’s kind of funny, considering Tony is a literal superhero, and can take care of himself even without the Iron Man armor, and the closest Stiles gets to actually having to do anything is when he uses his body to block an overexuberant fan from getting in Tony’s face at a charity auction. It’s admittedly a little boring, though there is one occasion where he goes with Tony to an expo, and _that_ is brilliant. He gets to watch not just Tony’s presentation, but the others too, and swings by some stalls when he has the chance.

Other times, he helps out at SI. He enjoys that more than he’s willing to admit to Tony. The people he works with are all pretty friendly, which is unexpected; he’d worried they might be a little pissed at someone without any credentials in the field working with them. Mostly, he observes, seeing both the brilliant breakthroughs and the more mundane details of different projects, but he puts forward ideas here and there. The best days are when Lydia is there and they get to work alongside each other. He gets to see how much the employees respect her, and he sees how much she loves being there, loves working on the projects. It’s always nice to see her in her element.

Occasionally, Tony asks him to help out in the workshop. It’s a little awkward; Stiles loves it, loves seeing Tony work and how everything comes together, but he still feels uncomfortable, remembering how he betrayed the other man. He helps by lifting or holding, but he doesn’t offer any ideas, even when they flash into his head, and Tony doesn’t press him. Stiles can see the effort Tony puts in every time, too, that determination to trust Stiles, to not watch him closely or withhold information, and it’s tense, but he doesn’t give up, so Stiles doesn’t, either. 

When he isn’t working or with Stark, or spending time with his friends, Stiles is with Luke. They train together every other day, which is good for Stiles; he needs to keep up his skills and stamina. He knows he always has a tail, SHIELD keeping an eye out for any attempts by Deucalion. Most of the time, it’s Luke, and Stiles works with him, determined to do whatever it takes to take Deucalion down.

Two weeks into December, Tony asks for an extra pair of hands in the workshop. It’s nothing too strenuous, just lifting and holding various pieces of metal or machinery while Tony welds or adjusts or works on wiring. Stiles’s leg hurts a little, but it’s manageable. 

His hands are unexpectedly sore from his work at the bar. Between scrubbing dozens of glasses every day, which has made his hands rough and dry, and cutting up acidic lemons and limes, which has left his skin raw, each movement sends a little crackling sting through his palms and fingers. But Tony just has him holding the chest piece of one of the suits of armor. It’s suspended from the ceiling by cables that take most of the weight; Stiles just holds it steady and in position while Tony works on some internal upgrades. It doesn’t put much strain on his aching hands and he tunes everything out, carried away by the white noise of Tony’s music and the rhythmic hammering of metal.

He’s so out of it that he doesn’t hear Tony’s command to let go of the chest piece. When Tony tugs on the metal, adjusting it for better access to a certain joint, the edge of the shoulder plate catches on Stiles’s hands. It wouldn’t be so bad, except the sensation of metal scraping over his already raw palms hurts like _hell_ , and Stiles -.

Stiles snaps. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” he shouts, letting go, and he’s swinging before he really thinks about it.

A strong, calloused hand catches his wrist, stopping his punch. “You know,” Tony says, tone dry as dust. “This is state of the art machinery and worth more than you could ever comprehend. Hitting it would be a really bad idea. Not to mention you’d break your hand. So, don’t.”

Stiles tugs his hand free, exhaling sharply. “Sorry,” he mutters. “That was – I shouldn’t have done that. Sorry.”

Tony looks at him for a long moment, dark eyes focused on Stiles’s face. Then, giving a casual shrug, he turns away to haul, with Dum-E’s help, a large, thick sheet of metal over. He places it on the empty bench to Stiles’s right.

“Go ahead.”

Stiles blinks. “What do you mean?”

Stark picks up a hammer, tossing it to Stiles. He catches it automatically, looking down at it before glancing at the sheet of metal.

“Go ahead,” Tony repeats.

“You don’t…need it?”

“Are you asking if I can afford to replace it?” he replies, amused.

Point taken. Stiles grips the hammer a little tighter, turns to the bench. Aware of Tony’s gaze on him, he feels a little awkward, a little uncertain, as he lifts the tool up, then swings it down, smashing it hard against the metal.

The clash of metal against metal hurts his ears. The sheet buckles slightly, dents where the hammer impacted it, and there’s something satisfying about that, something that calls to the well of rage and grief and horror storming deep in Stiles’s core. Exhaling shakily, he lifts the hammer again, brings it down harder.

He loses it after that. Loses track of time, loses his awareness of his surroundings, of Tony watching, silent and impassive. He hits the sheet over and over, feels that well start to boil, spilling over until the rage crackles and splinters out of him. It’s a release, so good it almost hurts, as he lets that wild, desperate anger and helplessness out, hammering the hell out of the sheet of metal until it’s crumpled and misshapen, metal protesting at the treatment.

His hands hurt. Some of the dry patches of skin have split open, bleeding slightly, and his arms ache from the repetitive lifting and slamming down. He lets the hammer slip from his grip, clattering onto the bench, and leans forward, breathless and shaking.

“Not enough?” Tony asks calmly.

Stiles exhales. Shakes his head. He hears Tony’s thoughtful hum, but doesn’t look up until he catches a gleam of red in the corner of his eye. Tony’s holding out one of the armor’s gauntlets. It’s hooked up to an arc reactor; not the one in Tony’s chest, but an external one he keeps in the workshop for testing the repulsors when not in the suit.

“Tony,” Stiles says hoarsely. “No. That’s…too much. No.”

“Trust me,” he replies evenly. “It’s cathartic.”

He lifts his gaze to Tony’s, staring at him. “How can you trust _me_? How’d you know I won’t shoot you?”

“Because there’s no one inside that thick skull of yours except you. Julia’s gone. No one else can get in your brain. Owen Rhys tried and failed. Besides, even if that wasn’t the case, there’s plenty of things in here you could have used to hurt me over the last few weeks. You don’t need the armor for that. But you didn’t.” Tony pauses, then shrugs one shoulder. “Hell, Bambi, if you shoot me, you shoot me. I’m fine with that risk. I’ve done a hell of a lot more reckless before breakfast. It’s kind of my MO. We won’t know until we try.”

Stiles swallows but holds out his hand. It’s trembling slightly, but that doesn’t seem to concern Tony. He slides the gauntlet on. 

“Okay,” he says. “Clench your fist. Gently.”

Stiles obliges. The plates shift, moulding themselves to the shape of his hand and forearm, working with his movements. It’s strange; the metal is cold and smooth against his skin, and not as heavy as he’d expected. Once he’s adjusted to the gauntlet, and the gauntlet’s adjusted to him, Tony gives him a quick lesson, then moves to stand safely at Stiles’s shoulder.

He points to one of the glass panes that separates part of the workshop from the rest. “Shoot.”

“But the damage -.”

Tony cuts him off. “JARVIS, how many times have I had to repair a workshop after I’ve been in a shitty mood?”

“Approximately three hundred and twelve, sir,” JARVIS replies, a touch of exasperation in his tone. “Would you like a run down?”

“Nope.” Tony claps Stiles on the shoulder. “Go for it, Bambi. Just don’t hit anything important, otherwise you’re paying for it.”

Stiles takes a deep breath.

He fires.

The whine of the repulsor pierces the air and the panel explodes, tiny beads of glass showering across the floor. Stiles exhales, a little shaky, choking a little with an incredulous laugh as he stares at the remains of the panel.

The adrenaline is welcome. This is different than fighting, different than practising with any other weapon. It’s _better_ , incredible, almost giddying. Stiles aims, shoots the next panel, and then the next. The destruction is cathartic. The sense of power, the sense of _control_ , is comforting. 

He keeps going until all of the panes are reduced to shattered glass and twisted frames, then slowly lowers the gauntlet, his breathing deep and steady. The rage is gone. He feels calm. He feels _good_.

“Holy fuck,” he says quietly.

Tony doesn’t say a word, just helps Stiles remove the gauntlet. He disconnects it from the arc reactor and sets it aside on the bench.

“How do you feel?” he asks.

“I feel…” Stiles pauses, unsure how to put it into words, so he settles for repeating, “I _feel_.”

Tony gets it though. He nods, mouth quirking up into a slight smile. Stiles looks down at his hands, sore and beading with blood, but they’re steady. _He’s_ steady.

“Tony, I…”

“Yeah, no, we’re not doing that sentiment thing. Disgusting. Get out of here.” Tony waves a dismissive hand, turning back to his work on the chest piece. “Go on, scram.”

Stiles grins and grabs his coat and winter gear, heading for the door. It slides open when he’s halfway across the workshop and he stops short, caught off guard to see Steve.

He looks just as surprised to see Stiles. Blue eyes snap to his face, widening for a fraction of a second, and then he pauses, seeming unsure of what to do or say. 

“Stiles,” he manages finally, voice quiet.

Stiles swallows. “Steve. Hi. I was…”

“Helping Tony out. He told me about your deal.”

“Right.” Stiles gives a jerky nod and points at the door. “I was just leaving.”

Steve’s gaze sweeps over the shards of glass scattered over the floor. For a second, Stiles tenses, wary of Steve’s judgement, but his expression is understanding, and Stiles realizes that of course he gets it. 

After all, Steve’s version of this is destroying punching bags in the gym.

Stiles manages a smile that doesn’t feel comfortable on his face and heads for the door. As he passes by Steve, he sees the other man’s hand twitch slightly, lifting as if to reach out and touch Stiles, and he both wants it and he doesn’t want it, so he doesn’t linger to find out if Steve will.

He leaves the workshop and doesn’t allow himself to look back.

***

He has a shift at the bar that night.

Hands slathered in some fancy skin repairing hand cream that Lydia had given him (that smells of rich cocoa and vanilla and keeps making him crave cupcakes), he goes early to help Ray set up ready for the evening rush.

It’s a weeknight, so Stiles is alone tending the bar; Ray alternates between being out back and chatting to the regulars, and since they don’t serve food, there’s no chef or waiting staff. It’s pretty quiet, just a steady stream of the same faces he sees most nights. He greets them with a nod, sliding their usual over their bar, and most of them stuff tips into his palm.

Stiles settles into his usual rhythm. He pours drinks and snaps caps off bottles of beer, sets packets of chips and peanuts and pork rinds on the sticky bar, talks to some of the familiar faces, flirts with the ones he knows it’s safe to (and doesn’t with the ones he’s learned better), sorts change and pockets tips that are thrown his way after a wink or a warm smile or, in a lot of cases, simply for looking the other way and keeping his nose out of business that isn’t his own. 

His hands are sore, but Liza, who communicates mostly in impassive grunts and eye-watering cussing but is sweet as anything, had kindly cut up the fruit for him after her afternoon shift, so he doesn’t have to worry about the acidic juices stinging the raw skin. He’s learned a couple of tricks from the other bartenders; tricks that aren’t needed, usually, since most of the regulars don’t give a damn about flare or style, they just want their drinks, but are useful for the occasional customer who likes a show. He fixes a bright, fruity cocktail for a biker with long, gleaming red hair and a pieced lip and his goofy juggling and smooth pouring earns him a nice tip. The quick, effortless pour of tequila into a row of shot glasses for a group of college girls without spilling a drop earns him appreciative clapping and some flirting.

If he’s honest, he doesn’t really enjoy the job that much. It’s a means to an end, a way to earn a necessary income, but it isn’t his kind of thing. He can admit that he misses SHIELD. 

But tonight, he’s having fun. There’s a good atmosphere in the bar, rowdy but not violent, and he can forget about his sore leg and tender hands and lose himself in the cheerful ebb and flow of patrons.

He knows when whichever reluctant SHIELD agent switches shift with Luke, because he comes into the bar and makes himself at home on one of the stools. Technically, he’s not supposed to have actual contact with Stiles in case it tips off Deucalion that SHIELD are guarding him, but Stiles doesn’t mind a little breaking of rules, especially from an agent who, apparently, is usually pretty square when it comes to following orders. Besides, he likes Luke.

He grabs a bottle of beer and twists the cap off, sliding it smoothly across the bar. Luke stops it’s spin effortlessly, curling his fingers around the chilled glass. 

“I can’t drink,” he points out. “I’m on duty.”

Stiles grins, shrugging one shoulder. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”

Luke eyes him for a moment, then pulls a _fuck it_ expression and takes a swig from the bottle. “You seem different tonight,” he remarks.

“I feel different.”

“Good different?”

“I feel like I can trust myself,” he replies honestly. “So, yeah. Really fucking good different.”

Luke’s mouth quirks into a small, lazy smile and he settles more comfortably on his barstool, taking another pull from his beer. Stiles smiles back and moves away to pour fresh shots for a couple of guys and a woman further down the bar. 

For most of the night, Luke alternates between watching Stiles and watching the other patrons, though he’s always discreet about it, which, given the bar’s usual clientele, is a good idea. He only drinks the one beer and switches to Coke after. When Stiles sets another glass of soda in front of him, he leans in over the bar, catching Stiles’s gaze.

“You know this place is a hotbed of criminal activity, right?” he murmurs.

“Really?” Stiles drawls. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“You’re fine with that?”

He shrugs, glancing around. He honestly is. After all, he’s friendly with these people, even if he’s smart enough to know that he’s not one of them, and to be very careful. He knows that the bikers playing pool in the corner would have his back in a bar fight if anyone tried to start shit while he was working; they’re respectful and protective of their regular drinking hole. He knows that the small time criminal drinking shots with one of the bikers, the redhead wearing a low cut leather vest, would forge any kind of ID Stiles needed if he asked, and he knows that if he ever needs to get his hands on a car, the couple twined around each other at the end of the bar would happily jimmy him one for a small fee.

He doesn’t know how he tends to gain friendships in these types of people, but it was the same when he was a kid. He still has contacts he made by hanging around the police station back home, talking to the crooks his dad or his deputies had brought in. Maybe it’s because they can sense that his morals are a little stretchier than his dad’s. Maybe it’s because they can tell he doesn’t always follow the law a hundred percent himself. 

But, somehow, despite knowing who he is and that he used to be a SHIELD agent, none of the regulars give him any grief. They’re just very careful not to get him involved in anything, and appreciative of his tendency to look the other way and keep his nose strictly in his own business and no one else’s. 

“Some advice?” he says to Luke. “Sometimes, it’s good to loosen up a little. Even with your job.” 

“Used to be your job, too,” he points out.

“Yeah. I liked it. I liked working on taking down groups like Hydra. I liked protecting the world from things like Klapow’s serum.” Stiles pauses, then adds, “But I’m never gonna be someone like Daredevil, or Spiderman, or some other vigilante. I never _could_ be. I couldn’t take the pressure of it, of trying to stop every single crime in the city. It’d fuck me up.”

Luke runs his gaze over Stiles’s face. “I don’t know. I heard about some of the shit you got up to when you were gone. I think you’re more like a vigilante than you realise.”

Stiles shrugs, looks away. “Maybe.”

He doesn’t mention that sometimes it’s good to be able to adapt your morals to a situation. That SHIELD, that Coulson, look for people who can adapt. He doesn’t mention that Natasha and Clint have plenty of contacts in the criminal word, contacts who can help them when they’re working a job and looking for information, or someone with useful skills.

Instead, he says, “I finish at one.”

“I know.”

“Meet me out back when I’m done.”

Luke looks at him for a moment, studies Stiles’s expression before his gaze dips to Stiles’s mouth. He nods once and Stiles grins, turning away.

The rest of the shift is smooth, winding down as gradually as it always does. He helps Ray to lock up and they head down the sidewalk together. Ray doesn’t talk much, but tonight, that suits Stiles fine. At the end of the block, Stiles turns to head down to the alley that cuts behind the buildings, where the bar’s dumpsters are located.

Ray glances at him, but doesn’t say a word, and his expression doesn’t change; he’s made a business of not giving a damn about what goes on around him. Instead, he gives him a nod goodnight and keeps walking, body hunched against the brutal December wind.

Luke’s waiting in the alley, right by the bar’s back door. Stiles’s footsteps echo in the dark, narrow space, boots splashing in the lingering damp left by a brief rainfall earlier in the day. He watches as Luke pushes away from the brick wall, but he doesn’t slow down; instead, he walks right into the other man, hands tangling in the collar of his wool jacket as he backs him into the wall. 

Luke’s back collides with the brick in the same second Stiles’s mouth presses against his. Instantly, he reaches out, gripping Stiles’s hips tight to pull him closer against his body, lips parting. 

It’s good. _So fucking good_. It’s been so long since Stiles has kissed someone, since he’s been touched like this, and Luke’s incredibly good at it, knows exactly what he’s doing, how hard to dig his fingertips into Stiles’s hips and how to tease him with his tongue until Stiles is pressing closer for more.

But then he stops, face moving back just an inch. “I shouldn’t,” he says, voice low and thick.

Stiles hesitates, pulls back a little. “Do you want to?”

Luke’s gaze drags over Stiles’s face, full of heat, and his throat works as he swallows. He leans in, teeth grazing over the mole on Stiles’s jaw, and admits, hoarsely, “Yeah. I really fucking do.”

He grins, sliding his hand to the back of Luke’s neck to pull him into another hard kiss. The heat between them crackles, spilling heavy, intoxicating arousal into Stiles’s belly, and he makes a quiet half-moan, half-grunt in the back of his throat as Luke suddenly turns them, pinning Stiles against the wall. 

His mouth finds Stiles’s neck, kissing a path to his pulse point, where he sucks a mark. A shiver ripples through Stiles, cock hard and aching in his jeans as Luke’s hands push up underneath his shirt to find bare skin, thumb drifting teasingly right underneath his navel before dipping under his waistband.

Which is precisely when the gunshot goes off.

Luke senses that they’re not alone a second before Stiles and is dragging him down and away just in time; the bullet punches into the wall scant inches above Stiles’s head, chewing up brick and spitting it into the air, and the two of them hit the ground, separate, and roll together, coming up in a crouch behind the cover of a dumpster.

“How many?” Stiles asks.

“Three,” Luke replies. “More approaching.” He hands Stiles a comms unit before connecting his own. “This is Emery. We’re behind the bar, Stilinski is secure, but we’re not alone.”

“Back up is en route, Agent,” a clear, crisp voice returns.

Luke withdraws his gun from the holster concealed under his jacket and looks at Stiles, giving him a single nod. They’ve planned for this, run through a hundred different scenarios while training together, and they don’t need to talk. Instead, they listen to the quiet, slick sound of rubber soles on the damp concrete as footsteps approach. 

When they’re close enough, Luke, still crouched, ducks out and fires off a shot, blowing right through the knee of the guy at the front. As he shouts out, leg buckling, Stiles throws himself out and grabs his gun, pointing it safely up before he can fire off a shot, and then he twists, breaking the man’s grip until he has full control of the gun. He cracks the butt of it against the guy’s jaw to take him down, then turns, shooting a split second before Luke does.

The other two men hit the ground, matching holes in their heads.

Luke looks at him. He’s different, like this; his face is like stone, eyes cold and determined. This is Agent Emery, not Luke, and Stiles feels himself settle back into the familiarity of this, of fighting, of surviving.

The sound of boots scraping at the other end of the alley snaps Stiles’s attention that way. It takes less than a minute for him and Luke to bring down the three other hostiles, and then they’re alone, the sound of their breaths, slow and steady, echoing in the narrow space. 

“Thanks,” Stiles says after a moment. “For the save. My brains would be splattered over that wall right now if you hadn’t reacted so quickly.”

“You shouldn’t be back here in the first place,” Luke replies quietly. “I made a bad call.”

More footsteps approach, but Luke reaches out, resting a hand on Stiles’s wrist when he starts to raise his gun again. It’s a team of SHIELD agents, guns drawn. They lower them when they see the immediate danger has passed.

“Any alive?” One of them asks, nudging a corpse with his boot.

Stiles points to the one he’d hit with the gun. He’s out cold, blood spewing from his mouth, and his jaw is already swelling up and bruising. 

“He, uh, might not be able to talk for a while,” he says sheepishly. “I think I broke his jaw.”

“No offence, Stilinski,” the guy replies. “But from what I’ve heard about you, that doesn’t really surprise me.”

Stiles manages a small smile in response. The sudden snap of adrenaline is wearing off, leaving him exhausted, in pain, and pretty fed up, and he knows he now has the ordeal of briefing with SHIELD. 

They clear up quickly; the bodies are taken to be disposed of and some of the team stay behind to clear up the blood and brain matter. Stiles doesn’t envy them that grim job. He isn’t squeamish – with his life, he doesn’t have the luxury – but he needs the separation. If he had to clean up the viscera of the people he killed, dealing with his ability and willingness to do it would be a lot harder. 

The one Stiles knocked out is handcuffed and bundled into the back of a van. Luke and Stiles are escorted to another to be taken to base. Luke is silent and still for the whole journey, avoiding Stiles’s gaze, and he has no idea how to break the silence or tackle the sudden awkwardness, so he stays quiet, too, staring down at his hands.

The back-up team is taken to Mack to debrief. Stiles and Luke are sent straight to Coulson’s office, where the Director and Agents Morse and Johnson are waiting. They’re in their uniforms, looking pristine and ready, despite how late it is. 

“Do you guys ever sleep?” Stiles asks. 

Coulson doesn’t look impressed. “Take a seat. Both of you.”

Stiles does as he’s told. He doesn’t look at Luke as the agent settles into the seat next to him, but he’s aware of the other man’s posture, ramrod straight and respectful. He considers trying to mimic it, since Coulson doesn’t look happy, but in the end he sticks to being comfortable. His thigh is aching after hitting the ground so hard in the alley. 

“What happened?” Coulson asks evenly.

“I’m guessing Deucalion sent them,” Stiles replies. “But I think they were sent as a test.”

Morse tilts her head slightly. “Why?” 

“A team of six humans?” he points out. “After previous assassins failed. After members of his inner circle failed. Deucalion’s too smart to have expected the ones he sent tonight to succeed.”

“They were sent to test SHIELD,” Coulson says. He doesn’t sound surprised; he’d already suspected it. “To see if we’re protecting Stiles.”

Stiles nods. “Now he has his answer. Any future attempts will take that into consideration.”

“Then we step up our security detail.”

He pulls a face, but he knows better than to argue on this one. Instead, he watches as Coulson leans back to sit on the edge of his desk, running a tired hand over his face.

“Why were you in the alley?” he asks. “You put yourself in a dangerous position.” 

His eyes find and skip over Stiles’s neck. There’s a bruise there from Luke’s mouth; he can feel it. 

“I think you know why we were there, Coulson,” he mutters.

“What were you thinking?” Bobbi asks.

Stiles is too exhausted for this. “I was thinking,” he snaps, “That I haven’t gotten laid in forever, and that Luke seems like the type of guy who could fuck me all night if I wanted.”

Silence falls over the room. Seconds too late, Stiles registers the sound of the door opening, the sudden halt in footsteps as whoever it is stops dead. He doesn’t need to turn to know who it is and he closes his eyes briefly, mentally cursing his shitty goddamn luck.

Coulson clears his throat. “Captain Rogers,” he says evenly.

“I heard about what happened,” Steve replies. His tone is completely neutral. 

Stiles doesn’t have the guts to look at him, but he’s aware of Steve’s gaze burning into the side of his face, is painfully aware that the bruise on his neck is exposed to Steve. He wants the ground to just open up and swallow him whole.

He feels like a complete and utter asshole.

“Emery,” Coulson says after a moment of awkward silence. “You’re dismissed. Debrief with Agent Mackenzie in the morning.”

“Yes, sir,” Luke replies.

When he’s gone, Stiles looks at the Director, waiting to see what he will say, what he will do. Technically, Stiles isn’t an agent anymore; he isn’t obligated to debrief, nor does he owe Coulson anything. But he is a consultant, and he does respect Coulson a hell of a lot. 

Finally, the Director shakes his head slightly and says, “Dismissed, Mr Stilinski.”

Dipping his head in a quick, grateful nod, Stiles gets to his feet. He doesn’t dare look at Steve as he leaves the room, but he can feel that heavy gaze on him right until the door shuts behind his back.

***

A SHIELD agent drives him home.

He’s aware of a security detail setting up. He doesn’t mind. He’s pretty sure Deucalion won’t make another attempt tonight, but it’s comforting to feel secure after coming so close to having his brains painted over a grimy alleyway wall, all thanks to his own stupidity and lapse in judgement. 

Still, he’s glad when he steps into his apartment, and he’s alone. 

Peeling off his damp clothes, he takes a look at his thigh. Luckily, it’s healed enough that the altercation didn’t jar it at all, but it still throbs. He takes a quick, hot shower, dries off, and pulls on a pair of thick, warm sweatpants and a Henley. 

He’s sat on the bed, rubbing cream into his sore hands when a knock sounds on the door.

Logically, he knows that it’s pretty unlikely that anyone posing a threat would have got past the security team, but he reaches for his knife all the same.

“Who is it?” he calls.

“Stiles,” Steve’s voice replies, muffled slightly by the door. “It’s me.”

At this point, after what Steve overheard in Coulson’s office, Stiles isn’t sure he wouldn’t actually prefer an assassin. Taking a deep breath, he puts the knife back on the windowsill and moves to open the door.

Steve offers a small smile. He’s wearing his brown leather coat, hands tucked into the pockets, and his hair is damp with rain, plastered slightly to his forehead. This close, Stiles can smell the leather of his jacket, the familiar clean scent of his soap, and it has warmth pooling in his belly and wistfulness twisting in his chest as he steps aside, letting Steve in. He watches as Steve’s gaze takes in the tiny studio.

“It’s not much,” he admits.

Steve looks at him, mouth quirking into a dry smile. “S’about the same size as the place Buck and I shared once.”

Stiles smiles back, nodding slightly. He rubs his hands nervously on his thighs, then gestures to the wicker chair. When Steve settles into it, he takes his own seat on the bed. 

There’s so little room in the apartment and Steve always seems to fill up whatever space he’s in, his presence unspooling around them until Stiles feels like the air he’s breathing in is purely _Steve_. It has his belly doing stupid little somersaults.

Fuck, but he _wants_ , and he misses Steve so goddamn much.

“Are you okay?” Steve asks quietly. “After…?”

Stiles’s nod is a little too quick, a little too jerky. “Uh, yeah. Yeah, I wasn’t hurt. I’m fine.”

“Good.”

He runs his tongue along his bottom lip, unable to quite meet Steve’s gaze. “About earlier…”

“Don’t,” he says. “It’s okay, Stiles. You don’t owe me an explanation or anything.”

“No, but…”

“I didn’t come here for that,” he interrupts gently. 

“Then why did you come?”

“Because I need to be honest with you.” Steve sits forward, hands clasped between his knees. His gaze finds Stiles’s, holds it, blue eyes bright and intense. “I’ve been too cautious, too reserved, in the past, and lost chances because of it. Lost people I cared about. I’m not going to take that risk with you, Stiles. I don’t want to lose you.”

Stiles swallows. “Steve, I…”

“I love you.”

The words sink right into Stiles, sticking between his ribs, honey sweet. He stays silent, aching, uncertain. 

“I love you,” Steve repeats. “The time you were gone was…it was fucking awful, Stiles. Knowing you were out there, being used, being hurt, and I hadn’t helped you, hadn’t realized until it was too late, I hated that. I hated knowing you were hurting. When you left, I can’t begin to describe how it felt.”

“I’m sorry,” Stiles murmurs.

“I understand why you did. I get that it was what you needed. But you were hurting and I had _no idea where you were_. Then Bristol happened, and Arizona, and LA. You were in trouble and I couldn’t help. I went to Indiana when Coulson told me about the Hydra facility.”

“You did?” Stiles asks, surprised.

“There was blood. I knew it was yours. I didn’t know if you were even _alive_. I searched the woods for hours, terrified I’d find your body. Allison had to talk some sense into me.”

_Shit_. Guilt, ruthless and cruel, sinks sharp teeth into his heart, wrenching it wide open. Steve must see it on his face, because he shakes his head slightly.

“I’m not telling you this to make you feel like shit,” he says. “I’m telling you this because I need you to know. I need to tell you how much I missed you. How much I love you. I know you’re still healing. I know you need space. But I have to tell you that…I waited over seventy years for you, Stiles. I’d happily wait another hundred. So, if you’re ever ready, if you ever want me again…I’ll be waiting.” 

Stiles’s lips part, his breath frozen in his chest. There’s so many things he wants to say, but he can’t say any of them; they snarl up in his throat, a thousand threads of guilt and love and desperation knotting together.

Steve offers him a small, warm smile and gets to his feet. “I just wanted you to know.”

And then he’s gone, the door closing quietly behind him, and Stiles is alone. Alone with his heart pounding in his chest and his thoughts spinning, emotion swelling inside him until he can’t remember what being void ever felt like.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warnings for: violence, snipers and gunshots, graphic description of blood and wounds, graphic gore and injuries, description of a panic attack.

Stiles doesn’t sleep that night.

He lays in bed, wrapped up like a burrito in three thick blankets in an effort to ward off the brittle draft whistling through the sagging window frame, Steve’s words playing in a loop in his head. No matter how hard he tries to sleep, the memory of Steve’s eyes, so intense, so honest, keeps him awake.

If he’s honest with himself, he just wants to go to Steve. Being so close yet still apart from him is harder than he ever could have imagined. But he’s still healing. Part of him is still too uncertain, still too wounded, to offer that level of commitment, and it wouldn’t be fair to Steve to approach him before he’s sure. He needs to take the time to think, to be completely, one hundred percent certain, before he even considers rekindling their relationship.

Dawn finally breaks, painting the sky with rosy hues that bounce off gleaming windows and glitter across the layer of frost shrouding the city. Stiles reluctantly wriggles out of his nest, shivering at the cold air, and he lingers in the shower, reluctant to switch the hot water for the freezing temperatures. Eventually, though, the water turns icy, and muttering a curse, he quickly dries off and gets dressed, bundling up appropriately for the weather.

His morning is spent at SI. Tony has him working with Lydia and a team on a project involving the development of a cutting edge, ecologically sustainable, purely autonomous system to clean plastic and oil from oceans. It’s beyond his capabilities, but it’s fascinating all the same, and he and Lydia share an ability to think outside of the box; they get to bounce off each other in a way they haven’t since high school, and it’s fun.

They meet Allison for lunch. She’s wearing leggings and sneakers under her thick sweater, coat and beanie; she’s come straight from base. Stiles feels a brief pang because he misses that, misses going to work each day knowing Allison will be there, but it eases when she offers him an easy, warm smile. He’d worried that things would still be tense between them, even after their reconciliation at Lydia’s, as they’ve both been too busy to see each other since. Her genuine hug puts his mind at rest.

Finding a cozy table tucked away in the corner of the bistro – away from the windows, close to the doors to the kitchen and corridor connecting to the bathrooms – they get settled, hanging coats, hats and scarves over the back of their chairs. The bistro is small but well heated; Stiles’s sweater starts to feel a little itchy, skin prickling from the stuffy, warm air.

Once their drinks arrive, Stiles sips his coffee and sits back in his chair. Scott and Lydia have caught him up on a lot of what he missed, telling him what the rest of their friends have been up to, but he hasn’t had chance to talk to Allison.

“So, uh,” he hesitates.

“What happened?” She guesses, smiling slightly. “With James and Nat?”

Stiles nods. 

“Well, they lied to me,” she says quietly, smile fading to something cooler, a little more bitter. “I don’t like being lied to. If it was just one of them, that would be bad enough, but the fact that they both knew, they both talked to each other about it, and lied to me? That’s not something I can forgive. I ended it.”

He blinks, surprised. Natasha and Bucky are both secretive, sure, but they don’t seem like the kind of people to lie to someone they’re in a relationship with. 

“What did they lie about?”

Allison tilts her head slightly. “The fact that they knew who was trying to kill you.”

“They know Deucalion?”

Her cup of coffee pauses halfway to her mouth. She stares at him, confused for a moment before incredulity flickers across her expression. “Fuck, no one told you?”

Stiles bites back the urge to sigh. Resigned, he leans back in his chair. “Told me what?” he asks tiredly.

“After the first attempt in Arizona, I did some investigating, trying to find out who was behind it,” she says. “My intel didn’t even get close to Deucalion. Instead, I heard that someone called Orion wanted you dead. Whether they’re working for Deucalion, or he’s working for them, or they’re simply working together, we still don’t know.”

_Fucking fantastic_. Someone he doesn’t even know wants him dead. It’s not just Deucalion he has to look out for, but whoever this Orion person he’s working with is. 

“Natasha and Bucky know who Orion is?” he asks.

Allison’s jaw clenches slightly. She nods. “She’s high up in Hydra. Bucky and Natasha both encountered her.”

“Who is she?”

“Kate.”

It takes a moment for that to register. “Kate,” he repeats. “Your aunt?”

Her expression is cold, eyes harder than diamonds, and though he knows it isn’t aimed at him, he still feels a chill sweep down his spine. He isn’t used to seeing Allison like this; like stone, full of ruthless, blistering anger and determination. She nods once. 

“Holy fuck,” he mutters. No wonder she’s so pissed off at them for lying to her. Reaching out, he squeezes her wrist gently. “Shit, Allison, I’m sorry.”

Her eyes narrow. “Why? Because you think I won’t be able to kill her?”

“What? No. I have no doubts about that. I’m sorry because she’s your aunt and it must fucking suck to find this shit out about her.”

The tension in her shoulders eases a little. “Right. Sorry. I’ve just been dealing with the former a lot lately. Coulson’s concerned I won’t be able to take her down if I ever get the opportunity.” She shakes her head. “She’s Hydra. She betrayed my family, she betrayed SHIELD, and now she’s trying to kill you. If I ever come face to face with her, I won’t hesitate.”

Stiles squeezes her wrist again and she flips her hand over to link their fingers together. He holds her hand, chewing over what she’s just told him. Kate wants to kill him. The last time he’d seen her, he’d been a teen, before all of this, before SHIELD and Hydra and superheroes. Back when he and Allison were just high school students worrying about college and grades and the lacrosse game coming up. 

Kate had been all smiles and playful banter, the epitome of a cool aunt, and Stiles had liked her. And now she wants him dead.

He’s not sure why. If she’s working for Deucalion and following his orders, it makes sense, but if she’s not, then she has her own reasons for wanting to execute him. The idea isn’t comforting.

“Stiles,” Allison says. Her voice is low and serious. “If you ever get the chance, don’t you dare hesitate, either.”

Stiles pauses. “Allison…”

“I mean it,” she insists. “She’s my aunt by blood only. I don’t give a damn about that. You have no idea what she did to me when dad figured her out, and now she wants to kill you. If it comes down to you, or anyone else I love, and her? It would never be her. So don’t hesitate because of me, because she’s my aunt. Take her down. Promise me.”

He swallows, nods. “I promise.”

“Christ,” Lydia remarks. “Lunch with you two always turns so depressing. Can we lighten up a little, please?”

Allison chokes out a little laugh and tosses out her short curls, sitting back as their food arrives. Once the waiter walks off again, she looks at Lydia, fond amusement on her face.  
“What do you want to talk about, then?” she asks.

Lydia’s smile turns sly. “We could talk about the lovebite on Stiles’s neck.”

_Fuck_. “Can we please not?”

“I already know,” Allison informs him. “It’s going all around base. You almost hooked up with Agent Emery.” She pauses. “I’m not gonna judge. I’ve seen him in training. I’d happily climb him like a tree.”

Lydia leans forward. “Is this the guy who accompanied you to dinner with me that one night?” she asks. “Because if so, _hello_. Was he good?”

“I got shot at before it went anywhere,” he replies blandly. “And then Steve walked in while I was explaining to Coulson why I felt it was appropriate to try and fuck the agent protecting me.”

“That’s uncomfortable.” Lydia’s nose crinkles slightly in sympathy. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. I wasn’t hurt. Steve swung by last night and, uh…”

Allison nudges him, eyes bright. “What?”

“Professed his love to me?” 

Lydia and Allison share a long look and a smile. Neither of them say anything about that, but their expressions are knowing, and it needles at the unfurling realization in Stiles’s chest, the one he’s not quite ready to acknowledge.

“I spoke to Agent Emery this morning,” Allison says. “I wanted to find out what happened and if you were okay, since you didn’t answer your phone.”

“Oh, shit. Sorry. I didn’t even think.”

She waves that off. “We didn’t talk about what happened before someone shot at you. But he said something.”

“What?”

“He said that he’d never seen you look more in your element than you did in that alley after fighting.”

Stiles swallows. “Well, he doesn’t know me that well. We’ve only known each other a couple of weeks.”

“Long enough to stick your tongue down his throat,” Lydia teases, winking when he pulls a face.

“He said that you looked like that was where you belonged,” Allison adds. “You’re a fighter. An agent. That’s who you are.”

He sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. He knows Luke’s just being honest; he isn’t the type to bullshit, which is one of the reasons Stiles likes hanging out with him. And he knows Allison is just trying to be a good friend, but he isn’t ready for this.

“You know what I am?” he asks quietly. “Tired. I’m really goddamn tired.”

***

December 20th rolls around.

Stiles’s thigh is doing better. It’s healing into a scar and he thinks he’ll always have a slight dip where the muscle was chewed up, but he can walk on that leg a lot better and it doesn’t hurt nearly as much, only throbbing when it’s cold or he’s done too much exercise. 

He doesn’t train with Luke anymore. He hasn’t seen him since the night they kissed; Coulson removed him from his security detail since he’d got too involved. Stiles misses him a little, but he thinks the distance is good. He’d made a mistake that night, a huge one, and he has no idea how to be around Luke without it being awkward now.

He hasn’t seen Steve, either. True to his word, he’s giving Stiles the space he needs.

The bar is busier in the run up to Christmas, so he’s been taking on extra shifts, but he’s glad for it. He needs the cash to buy gifts. SI is a little less busy, so he doesn’t spend as much time there, but Tony still regularly calls him to the workshop to help out in there. Stiles isn’t an idiot and Tony doesn’t bother being subtle about how much he’s reduced the other tasks – like bodyguarding and chauffeuring – in favour of having Stiles lend a hand in the forge or workshop, but he doesn’t comment on it. Honestly, he’s glad for it. The more time he spends there, the less tense and guilty he feels, and some of that trust from before, the mutual respect, is slowly building back up. 

He sees Bruce a couple of times. Since Kolkata, there seems to be a kind of unspoken understanding between them, a silent acknowledgement that they both suffered because of Julia Baccari, but it was neither of their faults, despite the lingering guilt in their souls. Spending time with Bruce isn’t painful. In a way, it’s kind of healing.

But he doesn’t see any of the others. Being around Natasha or Bucky would be awkward now, considering the break up with Allison, and, besides, they’ve always been closer friends to Steve; he doesn’t want them to feel caught in the middle. Thor is off world and he considers contacting Clint, but in the end, he doesn’t reach out. For now, while he tries to figure himself out, he needs to keep his association with the Avengers relatively limited. He needs some degree of distance until he knows for sure what he wants.

Coulson ramps up the amount of security watching Stiles, but there’s no sign of another attempt. Deucalion, or Kate, or both, are waiting, and that unsettles Stiles. Patience is a sign of certainty, after all. He goes by the base occasionally to train – one of Coulson’s stipulations of being a consultant, to keep on top of his training – or to go through plans with Coulson. But most of his time is spent either working, sleeping, or spending time with his friends.

He feels stagnant, suspended aimlessly; he has no idea where to go from this point. He’s aware that he’s on a knife edge and, soon, something will tip him over, but he has no idea where it will send him. The thought isn’t as terrifying as it should be.

After a long afternoon and evening shift, he’s glad to switch with Liza and head home before eleven. The air is crisp and clear, the sky dotted with stars and a crescent moon. The city is lit up, murky yellow spilling into the horizon from tall glass spires and coating the road from ground level. It isn’t snowing, but some had fallen over the last few days; in the tiniest of pockets, a thick blanket remains untouched, but everywhere else, it’s turned to ice and sludge, churned up by endless vehicles and pedestrians.

As soon as he gets back to his apartment, Stiles takes a long, hot shower. He likes winter, but he hates the cold dampness that seeps into his very bones, especially after walking home in the snow. Once dried off and dressed, he shoves a microwave meal in to cook and makes himself a cup of coffee.

The knock on the door is a surprise; he isn’t expecting anyone. Before he can reach for his knife or call out, however, a voice filters through.

“It’s me.”

Steve.

Stiles’s chest does a funny little flip. Smoothing a hand over his hair and regretting his choice to put on his rattiest sweatpants and the hoodie with the mustard stains on it, he reaches over, opening the door.

“Hey. Come in.”

Steve steps into the narrow apartment, closing the door. “Hey.”

“Coffee?” Stiles offers.

He nods, so Stiles grabs the only other mug he has in the place, filling it with hot coffee. He adds sugar and cream just as Steve likes it and hands it over before moving to sit on his bed, letting Steve have the wicker chair.

Steve’s expression is tight, cautious; his shoulders are braced like he’s about to fight. He’s not here for a social visit, then, and Stiles sighs, meeting Steve’s gaze with resignation coiling down his spine.

“What is it?” 

“Natasha got some important intel,” Steve says without preamble. “She’s at SHIELD now discussing it with Coulson.”

Stiles nods. “Lay it on me.”

“We think Orion is in the city.”

“Kate,” he replies automatically, before Steve’s words even fully sink in. 

It feels strange to call her Orion, even if it’s her Hydra codename. 

Stiles has tried to dig some information about her out of SHIELD, but apparently, beyond her exposure as a double agent and subsequent disappearance, the organization has very little information on Kate, and even less on Orion, besides some of her suspected kills. That alone is pretty terrifying, considering the last ghost haunting SHIELD was the Winter Soldier, and Stiles has seen first-hand just how dangerous Bucky can be.

In his head, whenever he thinks about Kate, he still thinks of glossy blonde curls and corny jokes and a sly wink as she hands Allison and Stiles a beer, promising not to tell Chris, Victoria or the Sheriff. It’s hard to acquaint that with a Hydra assassin, impossible to think of her as ‘Orion’. 

“Kate,” Steve agrees quietly.

Stiles blows out a breath. “Okay. So she could be in the city. That means she’s probably going to make an attempt on me herself.”

Steve nods. “You’ll be safe,” he promises. 

He looks at Steve, surprised. “I’m not worried about that,” he replies. “Between SHIELD, Allison, and…well, you, I’m not concerned. I’m just fed up. Being a target is not fun.”

“I run around with an actual target on my back pretty regularly, so I understand what you mean,” Steve replies dryly.

Stiles smiles slightly. “Thanks for coming over to tell me. I appreciate it.”

He nods, draining his coffee in three big gulps. Stiles’s is still scalding hot and he winces slightly, imagining the burn in Steve’s throat right now. He watches as Steve gets to his feet, looking a little unsure, and stands too, hands still curled around his mug. 

“Your team is secure,” he says. “And I’ll be…around. If anything happens.”

“Thanks.”

Steve opens his mouth to say something -.

And then he _moves_.

He’s like lightning, slamming into Stiles, hands gripping his upper arms tightly. The mug hits the floor, hot coffee splashing over their legs and feet, and Stiles is being turned, protected by the curve of Steve’s body.

The quiet melody of glass breaking. 

A hard jerk of Steve’s body, followed by another.

A sharp gasp hissing between teeth, right above Stiles’s head.

A third twitch, and they go down, Steve flattening them to the floor, his body still shielding Stiles’s, even as the window shatters completely under the force of a fourth bullet, a fifth. 

Stiles’s mind is spinning, still playing catch up. Adrenaline snaps through him, cool and ruthless in his veins, and as soon as it finally hits home, _they’re being shot at_ , he’s moving, hands going to Steve’s chest.

“Steve,” he says urgently.

“We need to move.” The words are like gravel, forced between gritted teeth.

Together, they start army crawling towards the door; there’s no room for them to go side by side, so Steve gently pushes Stiles ahead of him. They keep as low as possible, out of view of the sniper, but before Stiles can reach the door, it bursts open.

Three of his SHIELD guards spill into the room, guns raised, and chaos shatters the air; a bullet hits one of them and Stiles pauses for a brief second, but the team are wearing gear and bulletproof vests. His focus cuts back to Steve.

A hand grabs his bicep, hauling him up. “Sir, we’ve got you covered,” an unfamiliar voice says. “Head for the door.”

Protected by the team closing around them, shielding them from further shots, Stiles grabs Steve and rushes for the door, stumbling out into the landing. Their momentum shoves them into the banister overlooking the flight of stairs below, but Stiles manages to catch them before they topple over it.

Steve is pale, sweating, breathing hard. Blue eyes find Stiles’s face and stay there as broad hands lift to cup his jaw.

“Are you hurt?” he demands.

“Steve -.”

“I need to know,” he insists, voice low and intense. “ _Are you hurt_?”

“I’m fine,” Stiles says quickly. “I wasn’t hit. I’m okay.” 

The relieved sound that punches out of Steve completely wrecks Stiles’s heart. 

And then he collapses.

Stiles tries to catch him, but can’t quite support his weight and ends up lowering him to the ground. What’s been screaming at the back of his head since the first sound of splintering glass, unable to be acknowledged in the initial storm of adrenaline and urgency to get out, finally crashes down on Stiles, tearing him wide open.

Steve’s been shot.

Three jerks of his body. 

Three bullets.

His senses are heightened more than baseline humans; he’d seen something, sensed something, and reacted in a split second, shielding Stiles’s body with his own.

He’d taken three fucking bullets for Stiles.

“Goddamn it, Steve.” Stiles’s voice chokes in his throat, strangled, and he fumbles at Steve’s chest.

Blood is soaking his shirt, staining it from pale grey to bright, vicious red in seconds. Hands shaking, Stiles tries to press them over the wounds, tries to stop the bleeding, but they’re too spread apart. There’s so much blood and he can’t _stop_ it, and Steve is silent, eyes closed, chest rising and falling too shallowly.

“- _Sir_!”

Stiles blinks, looks up. Blinks again to clear the blur of tears from his eyes. A SHIELD agent is right next to him, gesturing urgently for Stiles to get to his feet. He gets the impression that the agent’s been trying to get his attention for a while, but everything feels like he’s underwater. The world around him dulls into a quiet roar. He can’t feel his hands, or his legs, or his own tongue. Everything slows; the agent’s mouth is moving, shouting at him again, but Stiles’s mind is still on Steve, on the blood pumping under his hands.

Fingers curl around his shoulders, trying to pull him up. He reacts on instinct, grabbing the person’s wrist and holding tight, a warning, a threat, in every minute squeeze of his fingers.

“Sir,” the agent says. “I need you to put this on. _Now_.”

A bulletproof vest is thrust against his chest. Stiles lets go and tugs it on quickly, adjusting it until it’s secure.

“He’s your priority,” he says, hands returning to Steve’s chest. “We need medivac.” 

“Sir, our job is to protect you -.”

Stiles doesn’t move his hands from Steve’s chest, but he does look up, voice hard as granite as he bites out, “I know SHIELD protocol. This is Captain Rogers. Any task you had before now is done. He is the priority now. Is that clear?”

The agent hesitates. “But -.”

“That’s a goddamn order, agent,” Stiles shouts. 

Expression clearing, the agent, still a little shaken, nods once and takes control of the situation. He calls for medical evacuation for Steve and orders two other agents to join Stiles in trying to stem the bleeding. One of them has a badge that’s a little different; Stiles knows what it means, and reluctantly moves aside, letting her take over. She’s trained in field medicine. 

“Sir.” 

Stiles looks at the agent who’d pushed the vest at him. 

“We need to move.”

Stiles looks down at Steve, at his hands, covered in slick, vivid blood. 

Steve’s blood.

Hands pull him up, out of the way of the med team crowding into the tiny landing. Vaguely, Stiles is aware of his neighbor’s door opening, cigarette smoke spewing out for a second before the guy clocks the armed SHIELD agents and a superhero bleeding out on the floor, and slams the door shut again. 

He’s moving; he has to be. There are hands on him, forcing him down the stairs, away from the blood. Away from Steve. But he can’t feel his legs, isn’t even sure if he’s breathing. The world feels slowed to a standstill around him, even as everything is a rush; the blur of people around him, covering him, herding him safely into the van waiting outside the building, past gaping onlookers filming the crowd of SHIELD agents crowding into a tiny, nondescript house.

The door rattles shut. The cramped interior is lit up, exposing the three guards sat with Stiles. He vaguely recognizes one of them as a level eight agent he’d trained with a couple of times back when he still worked for SHIELD. 

He doesn’t know how long the drive takes. It could be minutes. It could be hours. Time feels fractured apart, simultaneously moving too fast and too slow. He stares at his hands. They’re shaking. He can feel the blood drying under his fingernails, gumming in the rough cracks of his skin. He should be cold; it’s snowing outside and he isn’t dressed for it. But he isn’t. He feels numb. Like he’s falling, slowly, endlessly, the world spiralling away from him.

Coulson’s waiting at the base. He takes one look at Stiles’s face and he’s lead quickly to the Director’s office, Hunter and Jemma following. The door shuts behind them, sealing them in, away from the flurry of activity in the concrete corridors outside.

“Alright, mate,” Hunter says, voice pitched low and even. Careful hands guide Stiles down onto the couch. “Just sit for bit, yeah?”

Stiles’s hands hang loosely between his knees. He stares at them as Jemma crouches next to him, carefully taking his pulse before looking him over. He’s not hurt, but speech is beyond him right now; his brain feels disconnected from his body, buzzing on a frequency no one can reach. 

“Stiles,” Hunter says, face right in front of Stiles’s. “I need you to breathe. In and out, come on.”

Stiles stares at him. He _is_ breathing. He’s sure of it. Except –

No, his chest is seizing, heaving with each desperate gasp. He hasn’t had a panic attack like this before; there’s no crushing feeling of anxiety, no bleak, gaping void inside him. The physical characteristics are there, but he feels separate from them, like his body isn’t his own.

But the sense that he’s drowning. That’s exactly the same. He’s sinking, water flooding his lungs, and it hurts and he can’t stop it.

Slowly, he breathes in deep, then releases it. He follows the calm, almost casual directions Hunter gives him, listens to Jemma’s gentle litany of reassurance.

“That’s it, mate,” Hunter murmurs.

The world washes away again. Stiles is aware of Coulson talking to different agents, of different people coming and going from the office. He knows things are going on, knows the base is thrown into activity because of what happened, but it all slips over him, around him, without sinking in. 

“ – Orion.”

Coulson’s voice. Slowly, Stiles lifts his gaze, focusing on the Director and Agent May. She’s holding a file out to him.

“Preliminary ballistics show .308 rounds,” she says. “Radically invasive bullets, American made. Shot from a distance of 3,200 yards.”

“It fits her MO,” Coulson agrees. “Orion’s our sniper.”

Kate.

Kate had tried to take him out. 

Kate had fired three rounds into Steve.

_Radically invasive bullets_. Something SHIELD don’t use, but Stiles had learned about during his training. Bullets designed with an ejection tip; once they hit their target, they expand their energy, spikes ejecting from the bullet to create a spray fire. Plenty of internal damage. The spikes fucking _shred_ their target.

That’s what she’s done to Steve. 

All at once, Stiles’s world snaps back into focus, so sharp it’s almost painful, his ears ringing and rage, cold and ruthless, reorienting his whole universe.

The door opens. Allison enters the room like a storm, sloppily dressed and hair sleep-messy, her expression colder and harder than diamonds. Behind her, Natasha and Bucky silently follow, calmer and more contained in comparison to the violence and rage barely leashed in Allison’s body. 

“It was Kate.” It isn’t a question.

Coulson studies Allison for a moment. He nods once. “Yes.”

“I’m going after her.”

“I can’t put you on that task force,” he says quietly, evenly. “You know I can’t. This is too personal for you.”

The look on Allison’s face is pure danger. Her fury is visceral, crackling in the air around her. Stiles has never seen her like this. It’s beautiful and it’s terrifying, and he’s viciously glad for it, glad that the full weight of Allison’s vengeance is focused on Kate. 

“Either you give me a team,” she says. “Or I’m going it alone.”

Coulson leans back against his desk, rubbing a hand over his face. “I can’t let you do that,” he replies, exhaustion thick in his voice and posture.

“And I can’t let you stop me.”

His eyes snap to her face, gaze sharpening at the implication in her words. She isn’t crossing the line; she’s marching over it and stomping it into fucking dust and dirt behind her. 

Coulson could stop her. Call in agents to restrain and contain her. But he doesn’t _want_ to; it’s evident on his face. He’s stuck between his position as Director and his natural instinct to help. 

And then Natasha says, quietly, “We’re with her, Phil. No matter what.”

Allison on her own is nothing Coulson can’t handle. But the involvement of Natasha and Bucky isn’t something anyone wants. Resigned, he nods. 

“You’ll have what you need, Agent.”

Some of the tension bleeds out of Allison’s posture. She nods back, just once, in acknowledgement and gratitude, and turns, walking out of the room, Natasha and Bucky with her. Stiles pushes up to his feet and Coulson glances up, mild exasperation flickering in his gaze. Stiles doesn’t look away as he speaks.

“I think I’ll take my badge back now.” 

Coulson’s surprise is brief but palpable. He pauses for a moment. “This isn’t something you can take back and then drop as soon as you’ve done what you need to do, Stiles. Are you back?”

There’s no doubt in Stiles’s gut, no hesitation creeping in the back of his mind. This is what he needs to do. It’s time.

“I’m back.”

One of the desk drawers rattles open. Coulson retrieves a leather wallet from inside, holding it out, and Stiles crosses the room, accepting his badge. It’s weight is familiar, grounding, giving him strength and balance. 

Coulson drops his hand. In the wake of the evening’s events, he doesn’t look satisfied, but he does offer a tight, exhausted smile.

“Welcome back, Agent Stilinski.” 

***

He catches up to Allison as she’s nearing the elevator. 

She glances across at him, gaze taking in the dried blood on his hands and clothes before tracking up to his face, assessing his expression. She watches as he slides his badge into his pocket, but she doesn’t say a word. She doesn’t need to.

Her hand reaches out, fingers locking with his, and she holds on tightly. Side by side, they step into the elevator, determination binding them together with steel and fire.

Whatever it takes, they’ll take Kate and Deucalion down. Together.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings in this chapter for: angst, graphic description of injuries, blood, surgery, pain, gore. A large portion of this chapter has very graphic and gory descriptions; if that is something you'd prefer to avoid, I'd recommend skipping from the line "Jesus. Stiles scrubs a hand over his jaw. “Why?”" to the paragraph starting "He looks a hell of a lot better once he’s clean."

The first thing Stiles hears, the second he steps foot in medical, is screaming.

The sound shakes him to the core. It’s raw and brutal, squeezed out like they’re escaping through clenched teeth, uncaring of the person’s determination to stay silent. The sound is grating and visceral; agony given a voice.

What makes it worse is knowing that it’s Steve screaming.

What makes it worse is knowing that Steve has a pain tolerance that is, quite frankly, both impressive and fucking terrifying. That he’s in so much pain that he can’t _help_ but scream, can’t keep those tortured howls contained, chills Stiles to the goddamn bone. Each guttural yell feels like a serrated knife in his guts. 

He’s crossing the room before he even thinks about it. The medical bay is empty, except for a few armed guards standing by the doors at the other end. Stiles has never been through there; the private area, the place where the likes of SHIELD’s director or superheroes are taken for treatment by SHIELD, when a normal hospital or the tower’s medical floor is, for whatever reason, out of the question. 

One of the armed guards moves to block him, but Stiles doesn’t slow down. Determination makes him wild; the only thing that’s going to stop him right now is if they shoot him, which is probably pretty likely, since the guard’s lifting his weapon in warning. 

He stops, meeting the guy’s gaze. “I’m going in there walking,” he says evenly. “Or I’m going in there riddled with my own bullet holes. But, one way or another, I _am_ going in.”

SHIELD doesn’t train its agents to be trigger happy, and it doesn’t hire people with no sense, either. Stiles watches as recognition flickers across the man’s face, closely followed by uncertainty. Finally, he seems to come to a decision to allow Captain Rogers’s former partner through. Lowering the gun, he steps aside. Stiles gives him a nod in response and pushes open the door, stepping through.

The space he’s in is long and narrow, and bleakly lit by a couple of bare lightbulbs. Unlike the rest of the base, which, despite being a spaghetti like, sprawling maze of bland concrete, steel and glass, is at least well-lit and comfortably heated, this room truly _feels_ underground; dark, cold, and a little damp. 

It’s not exactly the kind of place he’d imagined an elite, Alpha level private medical wing would be like. He hadn’t expected luxury or opulence, but definitely somewhere that at least adhered to decent health and safety codes. It makes a certain kind of sense, though. This place, as well as being the most secure unit in the base when occupied and rigged to the high heavens with alarms and defence systems, is somewhere where the strongest or most powerful people in the city could be at their most vulnerable.

The feeling of foreboding, the sense of _I shouldn’t be here_ , is one more barrier of defence, warning off anyone who didn’t have the clearance and authority to be there.

Four double doors line the other wall, each with a window next to them; bulletproof glass, Stiles is sure of it. The screaming is louder now, splitting the air, coming from behind the set of doors right in front of him. The window to its right is opaque, obscuring any sight into the room. He starts to move towards them, but one opens before he reaches it. Bobbi steps out, closing the door firmly behind her, and lifts her hands up, palms facing Stiles.

“You’re working on him?” Stiles asks.

He’s not surprised, exactly; she has a degree in biology and is trained in field medicine. He’s known her to step in to assist in the medical bay when necessary. But only when there aren’t any SHIELD doctors available.

Bobbi nods. “And Jemma,” she replies. “As well as the medical staff. We needed all the hands we could get.”

Another howl cuts through the air. Stiles feels sick, fingers curling into his palms until his knuckles ache. Even Bobbi winces slightly, stress tightening her jaw. 

“For fuck’s sake, why is he _awake_?” Stiles demands, horrified.

“You think we didn’t try to put him under?” she counters, exhaustion thick in her voice. “We know that usual sedatives don’t work on him. The med staff have to use a combination of drugs in a very high concentration in order to put him under, and even then, it wears off so quickly that they have to work fast. But even the usual combination is ineffective this time.”

_Jesus_. Stiles scrubs a hand over his jaw. “Why?”

“His body is trying to heal, despite the amount of bullet shrapnel still inside him. His metabolism is burning through the drugs too quickly for them to work. Even local anaesthetic isn’t working.” Her voice softens, sympathy relaxing her expression a touch. “There’s nothing we can do about the pain.”

Bile burns in Stiles’s throat. He thinks about them digging into Steve, trying to clean out the tiniest bit of shrapnel left by the radically invasive bullet’s spikes so they can patch him up long enough for him to heal, all while he’s awake and feeling every single second of it. 

Then his mind runs over her explanation again, snags over part of it. “His body is trying to heal,” he repeats flatly.

Bobbi knows she doesn’t have to explain further. She nods once. 

They’re having to cut into him. If Steve’s body is trying to heal over despite the shrapnel, despite the internal damage still bleeding and shredding open every time he moves, that means the doctors have to reopen the external wounds in order to access what they need to. 

Steve’s next scream guts Stiles.

He takes a step forward, voice hoarse as he says, “I need to be with him.”

“Stiles,” Bobbi warns, moving to block him. She lifts her hands again, warding him off.

“I know I’m not - fucking scrubbed up and sterile, or whatever, but Steve is immune to catching anything. Bobbi, let me through.”

“Stiles, he doesn’t want you in there.”

For a second, Stiles can’t breathe, torn open by six simple words. _He doesn’t want you in there_. But logic kicks in again. He knows Steve, knows him well enough to realize that Steve doesn’t want Stiles to see him like this, but he’ll be damned if he stays outside, knowing the man he loves is in agony, when he can be in there offering support, or comfort, or _something_ more useful than hanging around listening to him scream.

“Yeah, well,” he says, stepping forward. “He can resent me later.”

Bobbi blocks him again. When Stiles tenses, posture adjusting only the tiniest bit, but enough to give him away, she shifts her own accordingly, hands held low but ready to defend if necessary. 

She raises an eyebrow at him. “Really?”

He knows as well as she does that he doesn’t stand a chance against her. Not when she’s prepared for him, not when she’s willing to take him down hard if necessary. And definitely not in a space where it’s just them and there’s nothing he can use to his advantage. 

Besides, if he focuses past his wild, desperate need to see Steve, he knows that he doesn’t _want_ to fight Bobbi. He respects the hell out of her and she’s always been friendly towards him, and she’s just doing her job. 

_Displaced_ aggression, he thinks. He can’t get to Kate right now, but Bobbi’s right here, standing in Stiles’s way. He takes a deep breath, pushing down the sudden sharp burst of violent anger. 

“Bobbi,” he manages. “If it was Hunter or Daisy in there…if you were listening to them screaming in pain…” He swallows, whispers, “ _Please_.”

Bobbi’s posture relaxes, face gentling again. For a moment, she just gazes at him, torn, until another shout rings out, splitting into a broken, hoarse sob halfway through. They both flinch and she closes her eyes, inhaling deeply before she steps out of his way.

“ _Thank you_ ,” he breathes.

Shoving open the door, he steps into the surgery theatre. It’s bustling with activity, bright lights spearing down over the table in the middle, medical staff surrounding Steve. Stiles’s gaze sweeps over the tight circle of chaos, takes in the doctor working to get blood into Steve faster than he’s bleeding out, working a dangerous balance; others are handing tools to the surgical team trying to remove shrapnel from Steve’s insides, and more duck in, using suction to clear the blood spewing out so they can see. 

Horrified, Stiles watches one of the doctors use a scalpel to cut through freshly healed skin, slicing right through the threads of flesh, muscle and sinew trying to knit together, in order to dig around for a piece of bullet. The coppery smell of blood is thick in the air; Stiles can taste it in the back of his throat.

For a second, he’s certain he’s going to be sick.

It takes Steve’s shout to snap Stiles out of his shock. He moves forward, ignoring the squelch and slide of his feet in the puddle of blood around the table. It seeps, hot and wet, through his socks; he hadn’t been wearing shoes when he was escorted out of his apartment, hadn’t thought to ask for some when he left Coulson’s office. 

He keeps out of the way of the medical staff, moving to stand by Steve’s head. His eyes are shut, expression taut with pain; he’s pale, sweating, teeth clenched tightly together in an effort to silence his own agony. 

“Hey,” Stiles says, trying to keep his voice as calm and even as possible in spite of his own fear. “It’s okay to scream if you need to.”

Steve’s eyes snap open, blue and hazy. They sharpen with sudden clarity when they focus on Stiles’s face.

“What – what are you…?” His voice is raspy and barely there; his throat must be shredded from shouting. 

“You wouldn’t wait outside if it was me,” Stiles points out quietly. “There’s nowhere else I should be right now but right here with you. I’m not gonna let you go through this alone.”

Steve stares at him, but doesn’t reply. One of the doctors digs into his chest, between his ribs to remove one of the spikes from his lung. His shout is wet and bubbling, cut off quickly by his teeth snapping together.

“Hey, hey,” Stiles murmurs, cupping Steve’s face. “Look at me.” 

Despite the pain, despite everything happening, Steve _does_. He holds Stiles’s gaze, body held so taut that his muscles tremble with the strain. Stiles knows this isn’t the first time something like this has happened. He knows Steve has gone through a hell of a lot of pain and injury, gone through procedures while wide awake. There’s weary resignation sunk deep into the cut of his jaw and the grind of his teeth. But the pain also sloughs years off his face, vulnerability stripping away layers of grief, loss and responsibility.

Stiles looks at him and he sees the boy Steve was when he joined the war. He sees the Steve who was barely a man when he signed up to be experimented on, when he threw himself into war to protect his country, when he lost everything – his best friend, his life, his whole world. Who, after all that, threw himself into protecting this new world, despite not having anything left.

Maybe _because_ he had nothing left. 

Swallowing, Stiles strokes trembling fingers through Steve’s sweat damp hair, brushing the golden locks back from his forehead. “Remember that time I stubbed my toe on the corner of the couch?” he murmurs, trying to smile. “I cussed out pretty much everything for, like, ten minutes. I’m pretty sure I actually cried a little bit.”

“Well,” Steve replies, voice crackling from his dry, wrecked throat. “Stubbing your toe does hurt like hell.”

Stiles laughs slightly, wet and shaky, and smooths his thumb gently over Steve’s eyebrow. “You should’ve seen me when I got shot. I was a mess. Super embarrassing.”

“Shoulda seen Buck when we were kids and he skinned both his knees,” he counters. 

“Bucky? Nah, he’s a tough guy.”

“There was snot everywhere.”

“Oh boy,” Stiles says, smiling. “I am _never_ gonna let him live it down.”

“Got plenty more stories for that,” Steve promises. “Be sure to tell him I told you ‘em all.”

“Steve Rogers,” he accuses, fondness thick in his voice. “You’re such a little shit.”

His grin is tight, clenched teeth betraying his pain, but he manages to smile all the same. “What are best friends for?”

Stiles is bumped aside slightly by a doctor. He moves, but keeps his hand on Steve’s face and holds his gaze, but from the corner of his eye, he can see the gleam of metal as the surgeon brings the scalpel down next to Steve’s sternum. She stops a small puddle of holes from healing over, digging in them to remove pieces of shrapnel, and Steve hisses between his teeth, face ashen. 

Stiles catches Steve’s hand and holds it. He knows how easy it would be for Steve to crush every bone in his hand, but he doesn’t grip too tight, despite the pain, and Stiles’s heart cracks open knowing that, even now, Steve is looking out for him.

“God,” he whispers, tears welling up. “ _Steve_. You took those bullets for me.”

“I can survive it,” he mumbles. “You wouldn’t. Wounds would’ve killed you instantly. I woulda lost you.”

Stiles thinks about the internal damage, thinks about the bleeding and the damaged organs. Thinks about how Steve stayed conscious, stayed _moving_ , making sure Stiles got out of the apartment, checking that he was safe and unharmed before he collapsed.

Through sheer fucking will, he’d managed to do all that. It’s incredible and it’s heartwrenching.

“This,” he says hoarsely. “You’re going through this because of me.”

“Had to keep you safe.” Steve’s voice is starting to slur a little, thick and hazy, but he keeps staring at Stiles’s face, keeps his fingers locked around Stiles’s. “Couldn’t lose you. You’re here. You’re safe. That’s worth all of this. Worth all the pain in the world.”

Stiles inhales shakily, the tears spilling over. “God damnit, Steve, you romantic son of a bitch.” 

To his surprise, Steve suddenly smiles, a big, slightly out of it, goofy grin as he gazes at Stiles. He looks so young and soft, blue eyes lit up slightly, and Stiles stares at him incredulously.

“I don’t want to freak you out,” Stiles says carefully. “But I’m pretty sure that doctor over there had his hands in your guts a minute ago. And, uh, you’re smiling. Why are you smiling?”

Steve’s smile widens. “Because you love me.”

He blinks. “Of course I do.”

“Wasn’t sure.” Steve’s throat clicks as he swallows, wincing as another small shard of metal is removed from somewhere near his ribs. “After…you said you couldn’t. Be with me. And what happened with that agent. I…wasn’t sure.”

Stiles closes his eyes for a moment, biting back the rush of guilt that feels like it’s gutting him. He feels like a grade A asshole.

“I never stopped loving you,” he promises quietly. “Not even a little bit, not even for a second. I love you so fucking much. Even when you do stupid, selfless, heroically romantic shit like take three bullets for me. You jerk.”

Steve just smiles. “I love you too.”

And then he passes out.

Stiles’s heart leaps into his throat. He squeezes Steve’s hand, presses his other against Steve’s cheek, fear choking him.

“Steve?” he urges. “Steve, c’mon. Don’t be so dramatic. Steve?”

One of the nurses rests a hand briefly on Stiles’s elbow, drawing his attention. “It’s okay,” he says, pointing to a heart monitor. “We were hoping he would lose consciousness, since the drugs weren’t helping.”

Stiles exhales shakily, nodding. He steps back, completely out of the way, but he doesn’t leave the room, and he makes sure he’s close enough for Steve to see him if he does rouse before the doctors are done.

It doesn’t take long after that. With Steve now completely still and silent, the staff are able to work faster, and soon enough, all of the bits of shrapnel have been removed. They’re piled up in a small metal bowl next to the operating table, tiny, lethal shards covered in blood. The sight of them, knowing they’d been embedded in Steve’s body, in his _guts_ and his organs, shredding him apart from the inside, makes him feel sick. 

Finally, Steve’s body can heal properly. One of the nurses starts to clean him up, but Stiles quietly moves back to the side of the table, and she hands him the bowl and sponge. Slowly, meticulously, he washes Steve, cleaning the blood and sweat off his skin. 

He looks a hell of a lot better once he’s clean. Less macabre, less like a victim in a horror movie. Stiles uses a towel to gently dry him and asks the nurse for clean clothes and a blanket. The cold won’t hurt Steve, but he still feels it, and he knows how much Steve hates it, knows the shitty memories being cold brings up for him. 

After setting the clothes in a neat pile on a chair by the table, Stiles looks over Steve’s torso. His complexion is better, healthier, and his wounds have almost completely healed, skin knitted smoothly back together. The internal damage might take longer to patch up, but just seeing him look so much better already eases the knot of dread in Stiles’s chest. He places the blanket over Steve, tucking in the corners to try and keep him as warm as possible, then glances over as a doctor carefully removes the IV from Steve’s arm, disconnecting the tube that had been feeding blood from a bag into him.

The fact that they’d managed to get the blood into him quicker than he could bleed out is remarkable. 

“What type is he?” Stiles asks curiously.

“Hm? Oh, universal,” she replies. She looks as exhausted as Stiles feels. “His body will accept any blood type, thanks to his ability to heal and adjust.” 

“Well, that’s handy,” he murmurs.

“He isn’t a universal donor, though,” she adds. “We tried.”

Stiles pauses. “You tried?” 

“One of our agents was badly injured. Crush injuries, low survival chances. We tried to use Captain Rogers’s blood, hoping the transfusion would heal him, due to the Captain’s abilities. But it didn’t take.” 

“He died?” 

“His body rejected it. Violently. The Captain’s blood is unique. When transfused into anyone else, their body can’t take it. The agent passed away, yes.”

He swallows. “Does…does Steve know about this?”

“No. We used one of the vials we had from some tests that were performed on him after he woke up.” The doctor peels off her gloves, disposing of them in a biohazard bin by the door. “We felt it would be better not to tell him.”

Distantly, Stiles is aware of a ringing in his ears, but his voice is calm and steady as he says, “I see.”

“We tried synthesizing a new drug from his blood, too. Isolating the element that accelerates his healing ability in order to create a drug that could cure even the deadliest of illnesses.” She pauses, shakes her head. “The same thing happened. Trial patients couldn’t handle it; their bodies rejected the drug. Guess Captain Rogers truly is unique. Whatever made that experiment work on him…well, he was lucky.”

Stiles slowly lifts his head to stare at her. “You took his blood,” he says dully. “Used him like…like some science experiment. Like a lab rat.”

“Medicine is rarely black and white,” she replies calmly. “Our goal was to save people. _Help_ people.”

“Get out.”

She recoils slightly, surprised and a little pissed off, but she, thankfully, does leave. Stiles takes a deep breath to try and supress the rage in his gut. Looking down at Steve, he runs a hand over his hair. 

Steve’s life has been all about being used. In the war, to do his dog and pony show to sell bonds, shoved out there as a performing monkey. After he woke up, to have his blood taken and experimented on, to be, once again, used as an icon, as the physical representation of patriotism, a face to put on the posters and lunchboxes as well as an actual god damn hero. 

_Look, everybody! He bleeds for us, but at least he bleeds red, white and blue_.

The door opens. Stiles doesn’t look up, but he recognizes the quiet, steady tread of Coulson’s footsteps on the concrete.

“Did you know?” he asks.

Coulson doesn’t bother pretending he doesn’t know what Stiles is talking about. “Yes.”

“Who ordered it?” 

“Fury.”

Stiles swallows. “Steve should’ve had a choice.”

“Yes,” Coulson agrees evenly. “My disagreement was well voiced, believe me. But Fury was always very good at bending ethics in order for what he perceived to be the greater good.”

“Guess that’s what SHIELD was founded on,” Stiles says tonelessly. “Project Paperclip, and all. What’s some participation in mass genocide when a Nazi scientist might be able to help America get to the moon, huh? _Bending ethics_.” He pauses, gives a bitter laugh. “That isn’t the SHIELD I want to work for, Coulson.”

“No. Me neither.” The Director heaves a quiet sigh. “I won’t pretend to have perfect morality. I don’t believe anyone can, and certainly not in this business. But when I rebuilt SHIELD from the ashes…I built it differently. That isn’t the SHIELD you work for.”

Stiles looks up, meeting his gaze. “I get that Steve is…he’s incredible. I get that people are interested in the potential he has, in what he, or his blood, can do for the world. I get it. But he’s a person, Coulson, one who has been used his whole life. Nothing will ever happen without his full consent again.”

“Of course not,” he agrees mildly. “I would never expect that of Captain Rogers.”

Stiles stares at him for a moment, but he believes him. He knows Coulson respects and likes Steve a hell of a lot. He also knows that, despite his own necessary bending of ethics sometimes, he is, in his core, a good man. A _kind_ one. As long as he is SHIELD’s Director, the organization won’t interfere with Steve. 

Nodding, Stiles looks away, back at Steve. He rests his hand on top of Steve’s, ready to settle in to wait for him to wake up, but Coulson clears his throat.

“I understand it’s unfortunate timing,” he says. “But we have things we need to discuss.”

“I’m pretty sure it can wait,” Stiles replies, but adds, “Sir.”

“It’s regarding the operation you and Agent Argent are involved in.”

Stiles pauses. Kate. Taking one last look at Steve, he rises to his feet, legs a little shaky and exhaustion, cold and aching, chewing into his bones. Rubbing a hand over his face, he silently follows Coulson out of the theatre. 

***

Coulson slaps a file down onto his desk.

“I’m putting together a task force to find and bring in Katherine Argent,” he says. “You and Agent Argent are assigned to it.”

“Allison isn’t leading it?” Stiles asks, a little surprised, as he drags the file towards himself.

“She’s too close to the situation,” he replies. “She’ll be an asset. Her determination to bring Kate down will be beneficial, but she’s too emotionally involved to lead a task force on this.” 

“So who is?”

“Romanoff and Barton have offered to consult with SHIELD on this. They’ll both lead.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me if you think Romanoff isn’t too close to the situation,” Stiles points out, snorting slightly. “I might’ve been away for a while and, yeah, I’ve missed a lot. But I saw Natasha’s face earlier, when she followed Allison in here. She’s still ass over elbows for her.” 

“Yes. But she’ll find the balance between her determination to stop Kate for Allison’s sake, and her responsibilities as a consulting agent for SHIELD. Allison’s too emotional, too…fresh, too new as an agent to lead on this. Romanoff and Barton both have level nine, Alpha level clearance. They’re the best candidates to lead.”

Stiles flips open the file. Natasha and Clint’s files are both at the front, behind a sheet detailing the new task force and its purpose. It pretty much just lists their codenames, clearance level and credentials; everything else is almost comically redacted. 

“Sergeant Barnes has also agreed to assist on this operation, where needed,” Coulson adds. 

Stiles nods, turning over to the next series of sheets. It’s a relatively small team, but well formed, which makes sense. Kate is a high profile, incredibly skilled target. They need to be subtle and careful in order to even get close to her. 

Natasha, Clint and Bucky are the only level nine operatives on the force. But then, only the Avengers and Agent May, as Coulson’s second in command, hold level nine, Alpha level clearance with SHIELD. Coulson, as Director, is the only level ten agent. 

Bobbi and Mack are the two level eight agents on the team, and there’s one level six: Piper. The file lists two level five operatives to finish the task force. Stiles looks up at Coulson, confused, but before he can open his mouth to ask, the older man smiles slightly and reaches into his pocket.

Withdrawing a small plastic card, he snaps it down onto the desk in front of Stiles. It’s another ID card, almost identical to the one in the badge Stiles accepted only hours ago, except a different colour, with a different agent insignia and, importantly, a different designation underneath his listing as a field agent.

“Welcome to level five, Agent Stilinski.”

Stiles swallows, carefully picking the card up. “You’re promoting Allison and I to level five?” Huffing an incredulous laugh, he adds, “That’ll piss off a few people.”

“You’ve earned it,” Coulson replies evenly. “During your absence, you took down and handed over to SHIELD numerous prolific Hydra agents, and you gathered useful intel on Deucalion and his inner circle. That alone is worthy of a higher clearance level. Allison’s performance as an agent is in line with a higher clearance, too.”

He blows out a breath, shaking his head slightly. “I…shit. I don’t know what to say.”

“You’ll have access to more SHIELD files and information,” Coulson informs him. “As well as higher clearance and authority. A hell of a lot more responsibilities, however. And more intensive training.”

“I think I can handle that.”

“Good. The task force will have access to whatever it needs – weapons, tools, technology, information, anything – in order to bring Kate either in or down, at Romanoff and Barton’s discretion. Officially, this is off the books, which means SHIELD won’t be as hands on as we usually would be.” 

Stiles flips back to the first page, detailing the team’s purpose. The Alpha-Red STRIKE Force, tasked with locating and eliminating the threat of several prolific Hydra agents, the priority being Katherine Argent. Knowing that he’s a part of it, that Coulson is allowing him in on this, settles some of the lingering anger and guilt in Stiles’s chest, knowing that Steve’s current condition is because of him.

No. Because of _Kate_.

“The team is rostered for training at 06:00 tomorrow morning. Dismissed, Agent Stilinski.”

Getting to his feet, Stiles gives Coulson a nod before slipping out of the room. He pauses in the corridor to switch out the ID cards in his badge, feeling an unmistakeable sense of pride and determination, knowing he’s now a level five agent. Knowing that, according to Coulson, he’s _earned_ it, even when he was at his lowest point. 

Tucking the badge away in his pocket, he swings by the uniform storage unit, borrowing some clean, dry socks and boots in his size, then heads back towards the med bay. Before he makes it to the private doors, however, one of the doctors clearing away supplies glances up at him.

“Captain Rogers has left,” she informs him.

He stops. Blinks. “He…left?”

“He was deemed well enough to continue healing at his own residence.”

“By who?”

Her mouth ticks up into a wry smile. “By himself.”

That doesn’t surprise Stiles even the slightest bit. He returns her smile, shaking his head slightly, and starts to turn, but she holds out a hand to stop him.

“You’re Stilinski, right?” she checks. “He asked me to give you this, if you came back.”

She picks up something from a counter to her right. The clink of metal is familiar, has Stiles’s heart tripping in his chest as he watches her hold out Steve’s dog tags. Silently, he reaches out, palm up, and she drops the tags into his hand. The metal is cool against his skin, the tiny beads digging into his flesh as he curls his fingers tight around the tags.

“Thanks,” he murmurs.

She smiles back, polite and friendly, and he manages to return it before he turns, leaving the med bay. Once he’s alone in the corridor, he looks down at the tags. He runs his thumb over the print of Steve’s name stamped into the metal. He can remember perfectly how they felt, the beads on his neck, the weight of the tags, the sensation of metal, warmed by his skin, against his chest, right over his heart.

He takes a deep breath, but it isn’t a difficult decision, not really. He already made the decision the second Steve collapsed in his arms, bleeding out from bullets meant for Stiles.

Slipping the chain over his head, he feels a small smile tug at his lips, and presses his hand over the tags, trapping them against his chest. Against his heart, where Steve made his home and never left, not even for a second.

***

Coulson wants him to stay in the base. Being bait isn’t a good plan anymore; it’s too dangerous. Deucalion, it seems, has no interest in getting rid of Stiles now he’s back in New York. Now he’s, supposedly, no longer a threat to him or his inner circle. 

But Kate is another matter entirely. She managed to get to him. If Steve hadn’t been there…

Stiles should be dead.

It’s safer to stay at the base, especially now he’s part of the task force. He definitely can’t go back to his apartment, even with a security detail. It’s too risky.

He has to admit, the déjà vu would be comical if it wasn’t so shitty.

There isn’t much at his apartment anyway, except for a cell phone, and he’s not worried about collecting any of his belongings. He has no intention of going back, but he also doesn’t want to stay at the base, especially right now. 

He needs to see Steve.

A couple of agents escort him from the base, driving him in a bland, unmarked van to the tower. Stiles raises an eyebrow when they move to climb out with him, however.

“I think I can take it from here, guys,” he says. “Thanks, though.”

“The Director assigned us to protection detail.”

He can’t help but smile slightly. “Uh huh. And in that building,” he jerks his thumb over his shoulder, towards the tower. “Is a bunch of superheroes and a security system so lock tight that it’s gotta be poor Coulson’s wet dream. I’m pretty sure I’m as protected as can be.”

They exchange a glance and Stiles reaches out, clapping them both on the shoulder. Then, he hops out of the van and rattles the door closed behind him, relieved when they don’t follow. The last thing he needs right now is two agents trailing him into the Avengers tower like the world’s most unnecessary bodyguards. He can just imagine Natasha’s face if they ran into her.

For a moment, he stands on the sidewalk, neck craned as he looks up at the tower. The ‘A’ is lit up, like a beacon for the city, a symbol of defence and protection, and Stiles has to admit, it’s effective. He feels safe just looking at it. The lower floors are completely dark, glass opaque, reflecting the stars and city lights.

It’ll be dawn in just over an hour. The sky is like a spill of dark ink, moonlight a hazy orb, veiled by thick clouds. It’s quiet, calm, a pocket of peace that’s rare in the city, even at this hour. It takes him a moment to realize that he’s stood on the sidewalk, completely exposed to, say, a _sniper_ , and that he has no idea how to access the building. The main entrance, for SI employees and visitors, is, naturally, locked, and he doesn’t know where the private entrance is now.

To his surprise, however, the glass doors suddenly fill with warm golden light and silently roll open. Quickly, Stiles steps through them; they shut behind him again, sealing and locking instantly. The lights in the foyer are dim, soft and welcoming, illuminating the bank of elevators.

Stiles smiles. “Thanks, JARVIS.”

“My pleasure, Stiles.”

Crossing the foyer, Stiles stops in front of the private elevator. His thumbprint is accepted instantly and he steps inside. 

“Steve’s floor,” he says. “Thanks.”

“Captain Rogers is currently in the fitness suite.” 

He pauses, a little surprised, but he figures he probably shouldn’t be. Just because Steve should be resting doesn’t mean he’s likely to actually _do_ it. He has an issue with staying down when people tell him to, even when it’s for his own health and wellbeing. 

Shaking his head, he says, “Fitness suite, then, J.”

The elevator starts to move, so smooth that it’s hard to notice they’re actually ascending. Stiles tucks his hands into his pockets, gazing at the mirrored doors in front of him, until they open a minute later.

“Thanks, J.”

The doors to the fitness suite are open. Stiles can hear the harsh rhythm of fists on a punching bag, steady and relentless, singing out a pattern of frustration or anger. He steps inside and leans against the wall, gaze finding Steve easily.

He’s in clean sweatpants and a shirt, the white fabric soaked with sweat. His muscles bunch as he delivers brutal punch after brutal punch. Usually, Steve’s blows are neat, with perfect form, but now, he’s beating the shit out of the poor punching bag for emotional release rather than practise. Stiles is pretty sure that, despite being reinforced, the bag’s going to have to surrender soon, but Steve has a couple more lined up on the floor ready to replace it.

Steve’s anger is a remarkable thing. He contains it, twists it inside and uses it as fuel. It’s quiet and it’s dangerous. Right now, the air around him seems tight, stifling, sucking everything in like a black hole, and he’s the epicentre, a force of nature that’s being restrained by the barest threads of control.

A hurricane trapped in a glass bottle.

Licking his bottom lip, Stiles calls out, “You should be resting.”

He doesn’t flinch. Whether he knew Stiles was there or not, Stiles has no idea, but he doesn’t seem startled. He lowers his hands and exhales slowly, then turns to look at Stiles.

“You’re here,” he says quietly. “You came.”

“Of course I did.”

“I wasn’t,” Steve pauses, mouth twisting slightly. “I wasn’t sure.”

“There wasn’t a chance in hell I wasn’t gonna come here,” Stiles replies. “You should be resting, though.”

He shakes his head. “I’m fine.”

“Your insides were fucking confetti a few hours ago, Steve. You should be resting, not tormenting that poor punching bag.”

“I couldn’t rest,” he replies tightly. “I needed…I needed a distraction.”

Stiles exhales. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “Yeah, I imagine getting shot a bunch of times is good reason to be pretty brassed off.”

Steve’s head snaps up, blue eyes locking on Stiles’s face. He frowns as he crosses the room with quick, deliberate steps, stopping so close to Stiles that he can feel the warmth of his body.

“I’m not…I don’t care that I got shot,” he says.

“Okay. Brave. But stupidly reckless. And kinda concerning, actually.”

“I’m pissed off because -.”

“Are we not gonna talk about the not caring about getting shot thing?” Stiles interrupts. “Because I feel like we should be. That’s not healthy, Steve. Do you -.”

“ _Stiles_.” Steve’s voice is low and fierce, steel wrapped in warm velvet. His hands come up to frame Stiles’s face, as tenderly as though he’s holding fragile glass. “One second too late. One damn inch to the side. And it would have been _you_. I would have watched your brains hit the wall. Would have watched you choke on your own blood, held you as you died before I could even try to stop it.” He leans in, forehead pressing against Stiles’s. “One damn slip up, Stiles, and I would have lost you. It was so close. _Too close_.”

“ _Oh_.”

He’d seen that care, that devotion, himself, watching Steve take those bullets for him, but this, hearing it, hearing that trembling, wild desperation in Steve’s voice, everything he is stripped bare, vulnerable and shaken to the core…it’s staggering. Stiles can feel it in his bones, in his blood and his guts and his heart, can feel it filling him until he can barely breathe, until he’s so _full_ , and he doesn’t think he could ever feel empty again.

Reaching up, he takes Steve’s hand, pulling it down gently until it covers the dog tags hanging from his neck. Steve presses on them, trapping them between Stiles’s chest and his own palm, and he’s close, close enough for Stiles to feel the warmth of his breath, but he doesn’t close the gap between them. Instead, he gazes at Stiles, blue eyes soft, hopeful, as he waits, allowing this choice to be Stiles’s.

Stiles doesn’t hesitate. He slides his other hand up, cupping the back of Steve’s neck, and leans close, savouring the moment of anticipation, of reunion, as Steve’s nose bumps gently against his own and their bodies press together, warm and solid and so, so beautifully _real_.

And he kisses him.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *shows up 3 months late with Starbucks*
> 
> I am so, so sorry for the delay. I've mentioned it in the comments and on my tumblr, but I've hit a huge block with this series, and writing for it has been incredibly slow going. Thank you for checking in and sticking with me, I really appreciate it. I'm afraid updates are likely to continue to be slow going for a while, but I'm working on it, I promise. I'm not abandoning this series. Once again, I'm super sorry.
> 
> Content Warnings in this chapter for: explicit sexual content; mention of blood; description of scars and injuries; angst; violence (in the form of sparring); implied ptsd; mention of Julia.

Steve reacts instantly, hands returning to Stiles’s face as he kisses him back.

Stiles closes his eyes, opening his mouth to the demanding sweep of Steve’s tongue, and tangles his hands in his shirt as they stumble backwards until Stiles is pressed against the wall, Steve’s body hot and solid against his front. 

One hand slides down to Stiles’s hip, gripping to pull him closer almost desperately. Steve moans quietly, a shudder rippling through him. Stiles gets it, because he’s just as affected, just as completely lost to the touch of Steve’s mouth and hands. Fuck, but he’s _missed_ this, and he needs it, needs Steve, so much it makes his head spin. 

He slides his hands underneath Steve’s shirt, smoothing his palms over taut skin, but then he pauses, pulling back with a breathless gasp. 

A soft sound of disappointment escapes Steve’s throat as he tries to capture Stiles’s lips again, one hand in his hair, the other on his stomach under his sweater. The touch has heat crackling through Stiles, tight and demanding low in his belly as Steve’s thumb skims the flesh right above the waistband of his sweatpants, but he deftly ignores the nip of Steve’s teeth on his lip.

“Wait,” he murmurs. “You should be resting.”

Steve’s mouth curves into a smile. He bumps his nose affectionately just underneath Stiles’s ear. “I just destroyed a punching bag,” he points out. “I’ve got plenty of energy for you.”

Stiles can’t help his breathless huff of laughter. “Sweet talker,” he replies. “But I’m serious.”

He pulls back. He doesn’t let go completely; his hands linger on Stiles and he keeps close, but he gives Stiles a little space. Blue eyes search his face. Stiles can see a glimmer of something like uncertainty, or doubt, in his expression and he gently takes Steve’s hands, lifting them to his chest.

“Steve, baby, listen to me. This wasn’t a mistake, or an impulsive whim. I’ve been thinking about you, about _us_ , since you told me you loved me and that you were willing to wait for me. Honestly, I think this was inevitable. But what happened today…that just gave me the kick in the ass I needed. I love you, Steve.” He leans in, kissing him, brief and sweet. “I’m not going to change my mind. I promise. But you nearly died today. You said you couldn’t lose me, but it’s the same for me, Steve. I saw you take those bullets. I saw what they did to you and it wrecked my goddamn heart. So, yeah, maybe you’re almost completely healed, but, please, humor me. Rest.”

Steve nods, hand finding the curve of Stiles’s jaw. He leans in, kissing him again, but this time, it’s soft and full of love. Stiles leans into it, sighing happily. Happiness bursts through him like sun rays through clouds, filling his heart with warmth. 

“Besides,” he adds, grinning a little. “When you’re completely recovered, I promise, I won’t be letting you out of bed for a _week_.” He gives a squeeze to Steve’s ass to emphasise his point. 

He laughs. Like earlier, the stress and years slough off his face, leaving him looking young, but this time, it’s because he’s relaxed and almost radiantly happy. It’s the best damn sight in the world. 

“Stay?” Steve asks.

“Always.”

Steve closes his eyes at that, mouth pulling up into a small, soft smile. Stiles can’t resist kissing it before he nudges Steve towards the elevator. He has no idea what floor Steve’s suite is on now, since the tower’s been rebuilt differently, but the elevator starts moving without any input from him or Steve.

Stiles feels a little caught up, happily carried away in the moment, but he knows he has to be entirely truthful with Steve. He reaches out, catching Steve’s hand.

“You should know something,” he murmurs. “I’m going after Kate Argent. Coulson’s put me on a task force with Allison to hunt her down.”

Steve turns his head, looking at Stiles for a long, quiet moment. “I don’t suppose there’s any way I can change your mind?”

“Probably not,” Stiles admits. He searches Steve’s face. “What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking that I want Kate to be taken down. She tried to kill you, right in front of me.” Steve lifts his hand, cupping the back of Stiles’s neck. “So, I understand. Do what you feel you have to, just be safe, and come home to me.” 

Stiles knows he can’t promise it, not really; the nature of the job doesn’t allow for those kind of vows. He won’t lie to Steve, even out of kindness, and he knows Steve wouldn’t like to be lied to anyway.

“I’ll try,” he promises instead.

“I’ll help, where I can.”

Stiles smiles slightly. “I know.”

The elevator stops, doors sliding open, and Stiles follows Steve into his suite. It’s different to the old one; a little bigger, designed more practically than Tony’s previous stylish flair. But it’s also, oddly, incredibly familiar. Those touches of Steve fill the space, making it feel like a home rather than some place impersonal.

“It’s designed for two people,” Steve tells him, watching his face carefully.

Stiles pauses. He runs his palm over the back of the couch, unsure what to say. He doesn’t actually have anywhere to go. He can’t return to his shitty studio now, since it’s a risk. He kind of hopes SHIELD might take care of his lease and the whole superhero bloodstains thing, not to mention the shattered window. 

“I left,” he says quietly. “And things are…different. _I’m_ different. Are you sure you want to jump right back into living together?”

“You’re still the man I love,” Steve replies, voice rich with sincerity. “So, yeah.”

Stiles takes a deep breath and looks up. He nods. “Okay.”

Steve smiles, face lighting up a little. “Okay,” he repeats. “Come on.” He holds out his hand.

Stiles takes it, letting Steve lead him into the bedroom. It’s a little bigger, built to fit the belongings of two people, except Stiles doesn’t really _have_ any these days. But now he’s setting down roots again, he can actually own more stuff. Clothes, for one thing, and a laptop. 

“Here,” Steve says, sliding open a panel in the wall to reveal a safe. He unlocks and opens it. “I’m guessing you’ll want this back.”

Stiles steps closer as Steve withdraws his ICER from the safe. His heart aches as he takes it. The weight is familiar and reassuring. He doesn’t have his stun disc anymore – he doesn’t even know where it is after all the chaos that happened – but he has this, the gun designed and calibrated for him, given to him by the team. 

“Thank you,” he says hoarsely.

Steve hands him the holster. Stiles slides the ICER inside and sets the holster on the chair in the corner of the room, within reach should he need it. The closet is new, but Stiles knows Steve; he doesn’t even look as he reaches for the third shelf to retrieve a pair of sweatpants. He grabs a T-shirt from the top shelf and closes the door.

His own clothes are stained with Steve’s blood; once he strips them off, he leaves them in a pile by the door to throw away as soon as he gets the chance. He pulls on Steve’s sweatpants and shirt and it feels right. With the dog tags resting against his chest, it feels comfortingly familiar. It feels like home. 

They crawl into bed together. After the metal bedframe and cheap, thin mattress of his bed back at the studio, Steve’s bed is like heaven. He practically melts under the blankets as he shifts to press against Steve, sliding an arm over his waist.

“I love you,” he murmurs.

Steve links their fingers together, lifting Stiles’s hand to his mouth to brush a kiss across his knuckles. “I love you too.”

***

Someone’s watching him.

He knows it the instant he wakes up; in fact, it’s the reason _why_ he wakes up. Alarm prickles down his spine and he snaps his eyes open with a quiet, sharp inhale, but it all comes back to him a second later when he feels the solid, warm weight of a hand on his hip and sees the face inches from his own.

“Just me,” Steve murmurs, voice low and scratchy with sleep. “Sorry.”

Stiles relaxes, rubbing slightly at his eyes. It’s light out. Flat winter sunlight spills through the windows; they hadn’t closed the blinds earlier. It slants over the bed, limns the sharpness of Steve’s jaw into pale relief while dipping the hollow of his throat and collarbones into shadow. 

“You were watching me sleep?” he asks, the word fractured by a yawn.

“S’been a while since I had you in my bed,” he replies quietly. “I missed it. I woke up and I just…I didn’t want to close my eyes in case you were gone when I opened them again.”

Stiles’s heart aches at the raw honesty in Steve’s voice. Rolling over to face him properly, he reaches out, ghosting one knuckle gently over the curve of his jaw. Steve reaches up, curling his fingers lightly around Stiles’s forearm, and tips his head to press a kiss to the thin, sensitive skin on the inside of his wrist. The press of dry lips and wet tease of his tongue sends a shiver racing through Stiles.

“What time is it?” 

“Just gone one,” Steve replies.

Stiles nods slightly. He tries to remember any dreams, but none come to mind; he’d slept well, deep and undisturbed, which, considering last night’s events, is pretty remarkable. He stretches out, savouring the soft comfort of the bed.

Steve reaches out, cupping the back of Stiles’s neck. For a long moment, he just gazes at him, expression unreadable before he leans in, kissing him. It’s soft and chaste, until Stiles presses closer, kissing him back. Steve’s thumb slides to the hinge of Stiles’s jaw, pressing slightly as he tips his head, encouraging him to open his mouth to Steve’s tongue.

The soft, breathless moan that punches out of Steve has tight heat coiling in Stiles’s belly. He pulls Steve closer, rolling onto his back as Steve’s hand finds his thigh, pulling his leg up until his knee is hitched over Steve’s hip. The weight of his body against Stiles’s own is familiar and intoxicating, the deep, slick sweetness of his kiss enough to drive Stiles crazy as he drags his hands down Steve’s back, kissing him almost feverishly.

Steve lowers his hips, grinding in a slow circle against Stiles, and the burn of arousal that sears through Stiles leaves him breathless and impatient, tugging slightly at Steve’s shirt. To his surprise, though, Steve suddenly stops and pulls his mouth away from Stiles’s, burying his face against his throat instead.

“Hold on,” he pants. “Give me a second.”

Stiles smooths his palm down Steve’s spine. “Is…are you okay? Did I do something wrong?”

Steve’s slight huff tickles Stiles’s neck. “No. I’m just…I don’t want to finish too soon.”

“Finish?” Stiles repeats, then blinks. “Oh. Really?”

He pushes up onto one elbow, gazing down at Stiles, expression achingly shy. “It’s been a while,” he admits. “I haven’t…not since you left.”

Stiles stares at him for a moment. “That was a year ago.”

“Hence my problem,” he replies dryly.

“I haven’t either,” he says quickly. “If…you were wondering.”

Steve’s gaze flickers over Stiles’s face, searching. “Really?”

“I wasn’t exactly in the right headspace for hooking up,” he points out.

“But that agent,” Steve pauses, brow furrowing slightly. “You and he didn’t...?”

“We were kind of interrupted,” Stiles reminds him. 

Steve’s quiet for a second. “But if you weren’t, would you have slept with him?”

“Yes,” he admits quietly.

He swallows, ducking his head. “I don’t have a right to be jealous. We weren’t together.”

“Steve,” Stiles says gently. “It’s okay. I’d feel the same if it was the other way round. But I…I mean, I would have been thinking about you the whole time, if that…”

“Makes it any better?” he finishes. “Surprisingly, it doesn’t.”

“Sorry.”

Steve shakes his head, sighing slightly. “Don’t. You don’t need to apologize.” He dips down, kissing him slowly. “You’re here now. That’s all I care about.”

Stiles relaxes, scraping his fingertips lightly over Steve’s abdomen. “I’m here,” he agrees. “And I’m not gonna go anywhere. I promise.”

Steve kisses him again, slow and sweet, and Stiles closes his eyes, arching up into it. He feels Steve’s hands on him, tracing his ribs before he gets a grip on Stiles’s shirt, pulling it up. They part reluctantly to Stiles can help him tug it off; Steve tosses it to the floor and places a hand on Stiles’s stomach as he kisses him again.

The slow, exploring tease of Steve’s fingers on his bare flesh has Stiles hard so fast he feels dizzy. He grips the back of Steve’s neck, kissing him deeper, but when Steve’s hand suddenly stills and he jerks back slightly, Stiles groans aloud.

“ _Steve_ ,” he mutters.

He doesn’t reply. Instead, he backs off even more, sitting back so he can look down at Stiles’s torso. It isn’t the heated, greedy gaze that Stiles likes, either; it’s sad, almost haunted, and Stiles realizes why Steve looks wrecked when gentle fingertips hesitantly trace the curved scar under his ribs.

“Steve…” he says quietly, dropping his head back. “It’s no big deal.”

“No big deal?” he repeats, low and incredulous. “Are there more?”

Stiles shrugs. “Some.” 

“Show me.”

He considers refusing, but he knows what Steve is like when he gets all intense about something, so he wordlessly strips completely, lying back with a sigh as Steve starts to explore his body, finding all of the scars scoring his flesh, both old and new. He finds some easily, the ones that he’d gained during their time together, but he lingers at the others, the scar and slight dent in his thigh from being shot, the lingering pale marks from burns, the half-moon under his ribs from embedded shrapnel. 

“Where did you go?” Steve asks quietly. “What happened to you?”

“Everywhere and anywhere,” he replies. “And nothing I couldn’t handle.”

Something dark and crushed flickers across Steve’s face. He glides his thumb gently over the crescent scar. 

“Deeper and you would have bled out. Higher and it would have punctured a lung.” Dragging his touch to the bone-white splatters of skin, he continues, “Just a little slower and you would have been burned to death. And this,” his fingertips hover over the gunshot wound, hesitant to touch the still-sensitive, puckered flesh. “A difference of an _inch_ , and you’d have been dead in minutes. And I wouldn’t have known. I wouldn’t have been there with you. I nearly lost you and I didn’t have a goddamn _clue_ , Stiles.”

“Steve,” Stiles mutters. “Don’t.”

He moves back up Stiles’s body, cupping his face. “You went where I couldn’t follow,” he says quietly. “I still don’t know what happened. Why won’t you tell me?”

“Because it doesn’t matter anymore. I’m back now.”

“No. Because you’re still running.”

Frowning, Stiles shakes off his touch, scooting until he can sit up. “I’m not running, Steve. I’m right here with you.”

“Are you?” he questions sadly. He taps a gentle finger against Stiles’s temple. “I think you’re still running. In here. That’s why you won’t tell me anything about your time away.”

“My time away,” Stiles repeats flatly, incredulous. “Well, I’m sorry, Steve. I’m sorry that I’m not ready to spill my guts to you straight away. I’m sorry that I need time. What do you _want_ from me? You want – you want to cut me open so that everything pours out? So that you _own_ everything? Just like she wanted?”

Steve looks stricken for a second. Then, slowly, he shakes his head and pushes off the bed, getting to his feet. Stiles watches him, teeth clenched hard enough that his jaw aches, and doesn’t say a word as Steve gets dressed in his running gear, movements sharp and jerky with his frustration. 

When he starts towards the door, however, Stiles calls out, “Now who’s running, huh?”

He stops for the briefest second, shoulders going tense, back taut. But then he keeps walking, doesn’t look back as he reaches the door, and it closes firmly behind him, leaving Stiles alone in the bed.

***

“You’re late.”

Stiles lets the door to the training room rattle shut behind him. He hears it seal, hears the keypad beep slightly, security system arming. 

He’s never been in this room before. It’s reserved for SHIELD’s Alpha teams, usually, hidden away in one of the subbasements. Coulson’s assigned it to the Alpha-Red STRIKE Force for the foreseeable future. It’s large and as bland as the rest of the base; one half is decked out as a training area, complete with mats and, to one side, weapons are securely stashed away in lockers, targets set up for practise. The other half is full of gym equipment for exercise.

He _is_ late and everyone else in the room turns to look at him. Allison, Bobbi, Mack and Piper are stood in a semi-circle in front of one of the mats. Natasha, Clint and Bucky are in front of them, stood in the centre of the mat, and Natasha crosses her arms over her chest as she watches Stiles.

“Sorry,” he offers. “Dog ate my homework? Slept through my alarm? Missed my bus? Any of these excuses working for you?”

She slants a look at Clint, who just shrugs, hands tucked casually into the pockets of his sweatpants. Stiles moves to stand next to Allison, not offering the real reason he’d ended up being late; he’d had to go and find some SHIELD issue gear, since he doesn’t have his own anymore. The fabric of the sports pants and shirt is familiar, makes him feel like he never left, in a way that makes him feel pretty fucking miserable, if he’s honest.

“Renegade,” Natasha says after a moment, gaze still on him. “You’re up.”

He lifts his hand slightly. “Is, uh…is that me?”

“Didn’t you read the file?” Clint asks.

“What, there’s stuff in there that _isn’t_ redacted?” he remarks.

Clint shakes his head. “Congrats, dumbass. You’ve got your own codename.”

“Renegade,” Stiles tries it out on his tongue. “I’ve heard worse.”

Natasha beckons him to the mat. He hasn’t warmed up, but he approaches all the same, walking past Clint and Bucky as they move out of the way, joining the row of spectators. Rolling out his shoulders, Stiles faces Natasha on the mat. 

“So,” he says. “Is this a practical demonstration, or -?”

Her foot lands squarely on his chest, knocking him to the mat hard enough that his back throbs. Grunting, he rolls on instinct, missing the follow up kick to his ribs, and pushes back up to his feet. Automatically, he falls into stance, adrenaline snapping through him. 

“If you wanna punish me for tardiness,” he offers, a little breathless, chest aching. “You could just give me detention.”

She punches him. Quick as a cobra, a solid right hook, and she doesn’t pull it. Pain blossoms in his jaw as he staggers, tastes iron in his mouth where his teeth had snapped shut, cutting slightly into his tongue. Catching his balance, he lifts his hand to his lip, checking for blood. 

“Fuck,” he mutters.

She’s not messing around. Her expression is smooth, impenetrable, giving nothing away. She circles him slowly and he matches her pace, refusing to give her his back, keeping her directly in his line of sight. 

She strikes again, aiming for his throat, and he blocks it with his forearm, circling her arm out in arc so he can land a blow with his palm to her sternum. It knocks her back, steals her breath for a second, but she recovers quickly. He manages to block her next kick, but misses the elbow thrown towards his face, spots it too late and ducks; it glances off his shoulder instead of his face, driving him off balance. Her body twists, quick and fluid, legs curling around his torso to throw him to the floor. She flips, but he corkscrews his body, throwing his weight to counterbalance hers, and they both end up hitting the mat, rolling quickly away from each other.

He’s rusty. Even with his regimes every single day he was gone, even with his recent sparring sessions with Luke, he’s still off his game. But as he warms up, he gets quicker, manages to hold his own a little more, instinct kicking in; he falls back on his training, body automatically recalling what SHIELD spent months drilling into him, and with his nerves lit up with adrenaline and a fierce desperation to prove himself, he keeps going, keeps fighting back.

Until she kicks him in the thigh.

The blow lands right where he’d been shot and the world goes dark for a second. He falls to his knees on the mat, catching himself on one hand, stars exploding across his vision, blinding, red-hot pain searing through his leg. He feels sick with it, dizzy with it, and he has to take several deep, shaky breaths, trying to push past the pain that has his skin prickling, fresh sweat dripping down his neck. 

Fingers curl over his shoulders, anchoring him. “Breathe,” Natasha advises. “Blank it out.”

Lightheaded, he sags forward, and she catches him by the shoulders properly. It takes him a minute to breathe properly, to push back up to his feet, unsteady and a little stunned. One blow. One hit was all it took to make him crumple like fucking paper. Frustration tightens his ribcage, tangles his stomach up into knots as he staggers off the mat. 

“Even if I didn’t know about your injury,” Natasha tells him evenly. “I would’ve spotted it the second you started to fight me. You’re compensating for it, trying to protect it, and all that does is draw attention to it. You’re still weak, still healing. That pain, that weakness? That will probably linger for a while. It’s a vulnerability. One hit and you’re done. You’re _dead_.”

Stiles grits his teeth. “I can still be put in the field,” he insists.

“You’re the same,” Natasha adds, looking at Allison. “You’re still tender where you were stabbed. You compensate for it, draw attention to it. One hit. Done. Dead.”

Allison folds her arms over her chest, gaze and tone cool as she replies, “I took down a Watchdog cell a couple of months ago. I think I’ll be fine.”

“Orion isn’t a group of jumped up idiots who got their hands on some weapons,” Natasha snaps. “She’s dangerous.”

“Kate,” Allison and Stiles correct her together, Allison adding, “Her name is Kate, and she’s my aunt. I know exactly what she’s capable of.”

“Do you?” she challenges. “Everything you knew about her, the cover she cultivated, all of it was a lie. You have no idea about the real Kate Argent.”

Allison goes very, very still. Her gaze doesn’t stray from Natasha’s face, her expression stony. In her sports bra and SHIELD sports leggings, her scar is on display, exposed to the world, and she doesn’t seem to give a damn. She wears it like a badge, as brutal as the cold gleam in her eyes as she stares Natasha down.

“Kate Argent is my aunt,” she repeats, tone hard enough to crush diamonds. “She taught me how to shoot. She gave me my first set of calibrated arrows. She helped me with my French homework, she took me dress shopping before homecoming, and she stood up for me when my dad or my mom was being strict.”

She pauses, tips her chin up slightly. “She’s also a murderer. A traitor. A Hydra double agent. An assassin. She’s the woman who lied to me for half of my life. She’s the woman who, when caught out, tied me up and held a gun to my head, and used me to get away from my parents. I know exactly who she is. I _know_ her. Everything she is, everything strong about her, everything _weak_ about her, I share it, okay? And I fucking hate it, but right now, it’s useful. Because if I know her, I can predict her. I can _beat_ her.”

“Orion is a ghost,” Natasha replies, carefully calm. “SHIELD has spent years trying to get anything on her and failed, over and over again. No one has got close to her. She’s almost as big a threat as the Winter Soldier was. But you think you’re different?”

“I know I am. Because I’m an Argent. Because I’m blood.” She pauses, mouth tipping into a bitter smile. “Because too much of me is like her.”

Stiles reaches out, letting his fingertips brush, briefly, against hers. Her gaze snaps to him and her expression softens by the slightest degree. She squeezes his fingers properly before she lets go, some of the tension in her shoulders easing.

“Are you benching us?” Stiles asks, and Natasha shakes her head.

“No. I’m telling you that you need to figure out how to block out that pain. If you get hit during a fight, you need to get back up and you need to keep going. You need to learn to hide your weaknesses and you need to learn fast. We’re looking for Orion, but there’s no guarantee that she won’t strike again before we find her. That’s why we’re here. That’s what I’m training you for.”

She partners them up after that. Stiles is paired with Bucky. He doesn’t miss the relief on Allison’s face when she’s told to spar with Bobbi, rather than Natasha. This must be pretty fucking awkward for her, being on a team and being trained by her exes. But she’s got a handle on it. She’s compartmentalized it in that eerily calm, efficient way of hers, focused only on Kate and bringing her down once and for all.

They face each other on one of the mats. Stiles’s thigh still aches but he tries to block it out, focusing instead on the beat of his pulse, on the warm throb of adrenaline coursing through him. Bucky doesn’t move, doesn’t prowl the way Natasha did; he doesn’t adjust his stance in the slightest. He just holds Stiles’s gaze, expression blank, pale eyes cool, waiting for Stiles to make the first move. He doesn’t. He stares right back and keeps his posture loose, giving nothing away.

“He’s hurtin’, you know,” Bucky says suddenly, and Stiles frowns.

“What?”

“Steve. It destroyed him when you left. Both times.” He shrugs. “He’s still hurtin’. ‘Cause you’re giving him nothin’.”

“Are you kidding me?” Stiles demands. “I spent last night in his bed. I want to be with him. He’s the one who ran away earlier.”

“Because you’re shuttin’ him out.”

Anger, bitter and fierce, steals Stiles’s breath for a second. Gritting his teeth, he spreads his hands slightly, meets and holds Bucky’s gaze as he says:

“Steve’s a grown ass man. He doesn’t need you fighting his battles like this is fucking high school. So maybe you should focus on your own disaster of a love life first, huh? ‘Cause, considering you lied to your partner and fucked up your entire relationship, I don’t think you’ve really got a leg to stand on, do you?”

Bucky punches him.

The blow knocks Stiles to the ground, fresh blood filling his mouth, and he feels his lip curl, a ringing echoing in his ears as his rage burns even hotter. He tries to wrestle it, tries to get a hold on it so he can mould and shape it, remembers how he’d fought the supernova when Julia first injected him with the strength serum. 

Shoving up to his feet, he twists, blocking Bucky’s next strike without even thinking about it; he knows, just _knows_ , that Bucky will be targeting his thigh, knows to guard for it. He pushes into Bucky, tackling him, and the two of them hit the floor. He drives his elbow down into Bucky’s face, crashing his skull into the mat, and aims for another punch, driven by raw, animalistic anger, by sheer survival instinct. Metal fingers snag his wrist, stopping him completely, and Bucky squeezes slightly in warning.

“Enough,” he says gruffly, voice thickened by the blood spilling from his nose into his mouth.

“Fuck you,” Stiles snaps.

“ _Enough_ ,” he repeats, sharper. “You ain’t running anymore, Stiles, and I’m not tryin’ to kill you. Back off.”

He blinks. He feels his fingers uncurl from their fist, going slack, and Bucky slowly releases him, gaze intent on Stiles’s face. Slowly, Stiles pushes up to his feet. The knowledge that the people behind him, the people he has his back turned to, are people he knows, people he _trusts_ , wars with the adrenaline that crashes through him like a tsunami, leaving ruin in its wake. That instinct, that fight-or-flight response, it beats inside him like a pulse, urgent, buzzing in his teeth and his ribs, and he can’t fight because there’s _no need to_ , he knows that, he does, but -.

He picks flight.

He crosses the room before he even really thinks about it, punches his code into the pad next to the door, and waits impatiently as it goes through its biometric scans before the lock finally releases. He rattles the door open and steps out into the cool emptiness of the corridor. 

He's halfway down it when he realises he’s not alone. He stops and she does to, her footsteps not making a sound on the concrete floor. He doesn’t turn to face her.

“Am I benched?” he asks quietly.

“I should,” Natasha replies.

He swallows. “But?”

“But you took Bucky off guard. You managed to bring him to the floor.” Her tone is even, devoid of any inflection; any attempts to get a read on her is like water sliding off glass. “It would be a waste if I benched you. You’re more useful in the field.”

Exhaling slowly, Stiles nods. “Thank you.”

“But if I think you’re a risk,” she adds. “If I think you might become a liability, I will remove you from the team. I have to.”

“I know.”

“Get some rest,” she advises. “Training tomorrow. 06:00. Don’t be late.”

She doesn’t make even the slightest whisper of noise as she walks away again, but he knows that she’s gone, senses that he’s alone again. He stumbles the rest of the way down the corridor until he reaches the elevator. Once he’s inside, the doors shut behind him, he leans against the wall and lets the cold metal ground him.

His lip stings. He can taste iron on his tongue, can feel the blood sticking between his teeth. His thigh burns, aching still from Natasha’s strike. He focuses on it, lets it overwhelm him for a second, a roar of sensations ricocheting through him, loud in his skull, unstoppable in his ribcage, until he can’t tell where he ends and the pain begins. 

And then he shuts it down. Pushes it back, locks it firmly away, takes a deep breath and lets the pain become white noise, lets it crackle like static inside him until, finally, that too fades to silence. He blocks it out and pushes away from the wall, exhaling. 

The doors open and he steps out.

***

Steve’s back in the suite when Stiles arrives.

He’s sat on the couch, like he’s waiting, his shoulders hunched and his hands clasped between his knees. When he sees Stiles, though, he frowns and pushes up to his feet, crossing the room. Gentle fingers find Stiles’s chin, cradling his jaw as he tips his face up so Steve can look at the cut on his lip.

“What happened?” he asks quietly.

“I broke your best friend’s nose.”

Steve pauses. “Did he deserve it?”

“Yeah. Maybe.” He sighs. “Probably not. He punched me first.”

His frown deepens. “Buck did this?” 

“Training,” Stiles points out. “Injuries happen sometimes. Besides, I pissed him off. It’s fine. Apart from the whole completely losing it and wanting to kill him thing.”

Steve looks at him for a long moment, then gently coaxes him into the kitchen. Stiles hops up to sit on the counter as Steve grabs the first aid kit. He’s been working out; he’s showered, hair slightly damp still, and he’s dressed casually, but Stiles knows he’d probably gone for a run or to the gym to take his frustration out on some punching bags. 

“Bucky hit me,” Stiles murmurs. “And for a second, it was like – it was like I was still gone. It wasn’t Bucky. It was someone actually trying to kill me. I lost it. Just for a second, but…” He shakes his head, closes his eyes. “ _Fuck_.”

He feels the solid warmth of Steve’s body as he slots between Stiles’s legs, and it’s comforting. It anchors him. Gentle fingers touch his face as Steve cleans the blood from his chin and tends to his split lip. It stings, but Stiles doesn’t flinch, just leans into the tender brush of Steve’s hands. He opens his eyes, gazing into the blue of Steve’s. 

“It’ll take time,” Steve tells him quietly. “It’s okay, Stiles. You’re not alone anymore.”

“I know. But I’m a fucking mess, Steve.”

“You’re strong,” he counters. “And I’m here for you. Always.”

Stiles lifts his hands, curling his fingers gently around Steve’s wrists. He feels the heat of his skin, traces the ridges of his veins and senses the strength in his forearms, in his hands. He presses his thumbs in until he can feel the steady, reassuring beat of Steve’s pulse, thrumming against his own flesh. 

“Bratislava,” he says, and Steve’s brow furrows but he doesn’t press, just waits, patient. 

“I saw St Elizabeth’s Church,” he continues. “It’s blue. Really beautiful. Bratislava Castle at sunset, too, was really…it was really something. Devin Castle made me sad. It’s ruins. But it’s right at the confluence of the Danube and Morava rivers and I know…I know you would have wanted to paint the scenery. There’s some really cool statues, too. Bratislava is where I spent my birthday. I think you’d really like it there.”

Steve gazes at him for a long moment, letting his words sink in, accepting them for the offering that they are. Even that alone feels like too much, has Stiles’s ribs aching and a familiar, bitter loneliness threatening to split open that void inside of him again, but it’s _something_. It’s a start. He can’t tell Steve everything. Not yet. He doesn’t know if he ever will be able to share it all, has no fucking idea if he’ll be able to open up about everything that happened when he was Julia, about everything that happened while he was gone, about his injuries, about his mistakes and his attempts to atone. 

Steve’s hand slips from Stiles’s jaw to the back of his neck and he leans in, pressing their foreheads together gently.

“Thank you,” he says quietly, and Stiles closes his eyes again and allows himself to relax.

They stay like that, foreheads touching, noses brushing, sharing each other’s breath, Steve’s hand a grounding weight on the back of Stiles’s neck, Stiles’s hands tangled in Steve’s shirt. They stay like that, and Stiles feels something inside him heal over, just that little bit more.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the huge delay. Between mental and physical health stuff going on, personal life getting in the way, and the current circumstances, plus a huge dose of writer's block, I really struggled to get this chapter done, and I'm sorry for that. Thank you so much for the continuous support of this series, it really means so much to me and I really appreciate it. I hope you and yours are doing well in the current situation <3
> 
> CONTENT WARNINGS for: nightmares; extreme violence, gore and graphic description (if you would prefer to avoid this, skip the section in italics at the beginning of this chapter); panic attack; mention of cryostasis in regards to what happened to both Steve and Bucky; discussion of mind control; description of war, extreme violence, gore, graphic deaths and description (if you would prefer to avoid this, I would skip Bucky's conversation with Stiles in the kitchen); discussion of attempted sexual assault, violation and trauma; mention of Steve being shot; mention of scars; violence in the form of sparring.

_The robot’s arm flashes out, smashing right through Chase’s ribcage, cleaving apart muscle, sinew, organs, bone. It’s fist bursts out of Chase’s back, splintering part of his spine into smithereens to get it out of the way; the silver hand is covered in blood and viscera, fingers curled around a still beating heart._

_Chase’s torso is split apart, his ribs cracked open and torn into ragged splinters that pierce through ripped flesh and muscle. His eyes are open, wide and shocked, his mouth slack. Blood dribbles from one corner as he stares vacantly at the robot. The fist clenches tighter, squeezing Chase’s heart into mulch, and then the robot yanks its arm right back through the hole in Chase’s torso._

_His knees crumple and he drops to the floor, face hitting the ground. The wound in his torso is huge, exposing meat and bone and guts, and the robot opens its hand, letting the remaining pulp of Chase’s heart drip and slither to the road next to the corpse’s head. Gleaming silver is splattered with vivid red, chunks of Chase clinging to the metal, and the robot flicks its fingers almost carelessly in order to toss a chip of bone aside._

_Stiles doesn’t watch as it soars back up into the air. He doesn’t watch as the Avengers close in towards him, weapons in hands, disgusted fury on their faces. He can’t take his eyes off Chase’s corpse. He stares as it rolls over, more of its guts sloughing free of its body and onto the road. Empty, clouded eyes find Stiles’s and he’s sure he can hear Chase, can hear blood-gurgled words whispered right to him –_

_“You did this.”_

He’s snapping upright before he’s fully awake, choking on his own gasping inhale of breath. The bedsheets tangle around his legs, constricting, and he almost falls from the bed, catching himself on the nightstand at the last second.

Disorientated, he twists and turns until he can free himself from the sheets, then swings his legs over the side of the bed and gazes down at his hands in the dark. He can just barely make out each individual finger, but it’s enough to slowly count them without having to switch on the light. It takes three repetitions before the teeth of the nightmare finally pull free from him and he sags forward, exhaling shakily.

He doesn’t need to look behind him to know that the bed is empty. He glances at the clock; nearly three in the morning.

“JARVIS?” he asks, voice gravelly with sleep. “Is Steve around?”

“Captain Rogers is currently in the gym. Would you like me to give him a message?”

Stiles shakes his head. “No, that’s okay. Thanks.”

Rubbing a hand over his face, he gets to his feet. The lights automatically turn on, dimmed to a soft and comforting golden glow, enough for him to make his way across the room. He decides not to bother Steve, unsurprised that he’s in the gym at this hour. Things have been pretty shit for him as well; it’s understandable that he’s taking some time to beat the crap out of a punching bag or two in order to work through it.

Instead, Stiles heads to the elevator. The kitchen in their suite is well stocked, but he doesn’t like how empty the place feels without Steve there. He wants to be somewhere communal, somewhere that, even when it’s deserted in the dead of night, still provides company in the echo of people being there, whether it’s an unwashed cup left on the table or a half-finished book lying open on the arm of the sofa.

As it turns out, the communal floor _is_ occupied. The lights aren’t on; the darkness is like velvet, soft and somehow comforting, despite the inherent vulnerability it causes. There’s no noise, either, no creak of a chair or rustle of clothing; there’s no scent of coffee or food, nothing to suggest that anyone else is around, but the second he steps out of the elevator, Stiles just _knows_.

The briefest sting of alarm dies out before he even properly acknowledges it. Logically, if someone who intended harm had managed to sneak past JARVIS and the tower’s defences _and_ it’s occupants, then they’d probably already be in a whole heap of shit. But, even putting logic aside, Stiles simply senses that the person sat in the kitchen isn’t a threat. Not to him, anyway, not really. 

He doesn’t bother to turn on any lights as he crosses the living area and makes his way into the kitchen. The tiles are cold on the bare soles of his feet and there’s a chill in the air; the heating isn’t on. There’s no acknowledgment as he stumbles his way to the fridge – the layout is new since the repairs to the tower, too unfamiliar for him to be able to navigate it in the pitch dark – but he feels the unsettling weight of a gaze fixed right on him.

“Should I acknowledge the whole creeper act?” Stiles asks flippantly. “Or just ignore it?”

There’s no reply. Opening the fridge spills some light into the kitchen, enough to glint off the metal of Bucky’s arm. Stiles grabs the carton of milk and nudges the door shut again.

“No, seriously,” he says. “Sitting silently in the dark, it’s pretty dramatic. You’re not that guy anymore, dude. Lights are your friend.”

“It’s…” Bucky’s teeth click together as he snaps the word short, clearly searching for the right phrasing. He finally settles on: “A lot.”

“Sure,” Stiles agrees amicably. “But, unfortunately, I’m just a regular dude with absolute zilch in the super senses department, so I’m probably gonna make a huge mess and possibly break my own neck slipping in a puddle of milk. So, mind if we have a little light?”

A pause, then, quiet but amused, “Go ahead.”

Stiles reaches for the switch, turning on a couple of the small bulbs fixed underneath the counters. It’s not too intense, just two pools of muted light, but it provides enough illumination for Stiles to grab two mugs from the cupboard. He fills them both with milk and puts them in the microwave. 

“Did you feel the cold?” he asks. “When you were in cryo?”

If there’s one thing Stiles has learned during his time surrounded by people who really should be more fucked up than they are, it’s that tiptoeing around things isn’t often appreciated. Being blunt probably isn’t exactly sensitive, but Bucky doesn’t seem to mind the directness of the question.

“Sometimes,” he replies. “Not usually. But…sometimes.”

Stiles isn’t surprised. By all accounts, Bucky should have been completely unaware while he was in cryo. But super soldiers aren’t exactly conventional by any means; Steve managed to go into cryostasis with no support systems, only the extreme cold temperature and the perseverance of his own body to put him in that state, and when thawed, he came out of it without any physical impact from being dormant like that for so long. Stiles knows that, on some level, he’d been aware of the cold; he’s seen that subconscious aversion to low temperatures first-hand, even if, superficially, Steve doesn’t remember anything between the crash and waking up. 

It’s not surprising, then, that even when he wasn’t technically awake, Bucky had still felt the cold. 

“So, sitting in the cold,” Stiles says. “Great coping mechanisms there.”

Bucky gives a quiet huff of amusement. “’Cause you’re one to talk about copin’ mechanisms.”

Stiles shrugs, smiling bleakly. “Fair,” he allows, then adds, “JARV, can you crank the heating up? I’m freezing my ass off.”

The adjustment in temperature is noticeable almost immediately. Bucky doesn’t acknowledge it, but Stiles notices the subtle difference in the way he holds his shoulders. The microwave beeps and he collects the mugs, then searches the cupboards until he finds a tub of cocoa. He fixes two hot chocolates, adding marshmallows, and sets both mugs down on the table before sitting in the chair opposite Bucky. 

“Hot cocoa,” he says. “Great for the soul.”

The corner of Bucky’s mouth tips up slightly. “Thanks.”

They sit in silence for a couple of minutes. It’s not uncomfortable, but Stiles is very aware of their mutual elephants in the room. He doesn’t ask why Bucky is awake at this hour, though; he can probably make an educated guess. He waits until most of the marshmallows have melted into sticky goo, then takes a slurp of his hot chocolate; the heat stings the roof of his mouth, the sweet gloop of the marshmallow catching in his throat before he swallows it down. 

“How’s the nose?” he finally asks.

“Fine.” 

“I shouldn’t have elbowed you like that. I should’ve pulled it.” Stiles looks down at the table. “I lost it.”

“I can take it,” Bucky says simply. 

Stiles shakes his head. “You shouldn’t have to. I should have better control than that. I just…”

“Spent a long time only fightin’ to survive,” Bucky finishes. “It’s hard to break that mindset when the adrenaline gets goin’. Don’t worry about it.”

Stiles exhales slowly and nods. 

“How’s Allison?” 

Stiles looks up. He’s not going to talk about Allison with Bucky; he’s not exactly on ‘sides’ here, not really. None of them are that childish. But he has her back and he knows if there’s anything she’d want Bucky or Natasha to know, she’d tell them. He’s not going to feed back to Bucky on how Allison’s feeling. 

Instead, he points out: “She’s Allison.”

Bucky smiles slightly. “Yeah.”

Stiles gulps down most of his hot chocolate in one go. The kitchen’s warm now, but Stiles can see swirls of snow flitting down outside the window. The wind blows the flakes to and fro, snarling them in frenetic whorls, but Stiles can’t hear the quiet howl; the glass is too thick, cutting off the noise of the world outside.

“Chase Phillips,” he says.

Pale eyes cut to his face. “What about him?” 

“I killed him.”

“Did you?” Bucky’s voice is devoid of any inflection.

“I reprogrammed the robots to kill him. What happened to him…I did that.” 

Bucky leans back in his chair, taking a lazy drink from his mug. “What do you want me to say?” he asks, almost idly. “That it wasn’t your fault? That it was mind control, that you had no choice? That it was Julia, not you?”

Stiles doesn’t answer, and Bucky shrugs.

“You’ve heard it,” he adds. “I heard it too. Didn’t do shit to help. I’m not gonna tell you something you’re not gonna listen to.”

Stiles swallows. “Does it get better? The dreams, the…the guilt?”

Bucky’s gaze flickers over his face, assessing. “Some,” he answers after a moment. “Never goes away completely, but you know that already. People like us, we’ve all got guilt about somethin’. We just gotta cope with it.”

“By sitting in the cold and dark, alone?” he challenges.

Bucky’s smile shows his teeth. “Sometimes,” he says. “When shit’s bad enough. Not often. Not as much as before. I told ya. It gets better. Just takes time.”

Stiles rubs a hand over his face. “Time,” he repeats. “Okay.”

Bucky’s silent for a few long minutes. Stiles looks over at him, but his gaze has gone inward, his expression vacant. It’s unsettling, but Stiles doesn’t disturb him, just waits until Bucky’s eyes find him again.

“We were just kids, you know,” he says quietly. “Adults, sure, but men? No. We were just boys. Stevie’s always been too brave, too focused on doin’ the right thing for his own good; the way he was back then, scrawny, sickly little shit that he was, he always seemed older than his age. But he was still a kid, really. We both were. And we both signed up for a war we had no idea how to prepare for.”

“The first time I saw one of those tanks…that was when the reality of war really hit me,” he continues. “These massive metal machines, designed solely for death. They were so fuckin’ loud, felt like you couldn’t get away from them, and they just cut down anything that stood in their way. I saw them gun down entire infantries. Steve, he could take ‘em out, he was fast enough, strong enough, sheer fuckin’ determined enough, but everyone else? We were just men. We had guns. We had grenades. But man versus machine? It was terrifyin’.

“So many places were littered with bodies. We saw townspeople, villagers, men and women and children, hung from their necks, their bodies left there for the fuckin’ birds. Punished because they refused to fight. Punished for bein’ ‘traitors’. Those places, there was no time to move bodies from the path of the tanks. They just rolled right over ‘em, crushed ‘em into pulp underneath the treads. Some of ‘em…some of ‘em were still alive. Those kinds of screams…they stay with you.”

Stiles swallows, bile stinging in his throat. He doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know what he even _can_ say, but Bucky doesn’t pause, just carries on talking, voice low and steady.

“I saw soldiers blown to pieces. Torn down by a spray of bullets or ripped apart by a grenade. I saw kids, just _boys_ , turned to fuckin’ meat and gristle by landmines. Least those ones were dead quickly. Sometimes, we’d hear men screaming, but we couldn’t get to ‘em. They’d be out there, dying, slow and agonizing, and we’d listen to ‘em screaming until they finally kicked it. I saw boys buried under the weight of their fellow soldiers, drowning in blood and mud and guts. I saw boys with their own intestines spilled out into the filth, stayed with ‘em because there was no chance of them surviving. Best thing we could do was put ‘em out of their misery quick. Gunshot wounds, flash burns, grenade injuries, malaria, sepsis…I saw it all. Felt like the world was fuckin’ ending.”

“The movies,” Bucky stops, shakes his head slightly. “The movies, the documentaries, the comics…they all keep it light for the kids. They focus on Captain America, the hero. They focus on the battles that we won. But it was nothin’ like that. Not really. It was hell. Steve, he remembers every second of it. Says he can’t forget. But I did, for a hell of a long time. When I started to remember…it wasn’t just remembering Steve, or my childhood, or why I fuckin’ hate blueberry pie. It was remembering the war, too. It was remembering the hunger and the cold, the dehydration, the exhaustion, the screams and the fear and the sky fuckin’ burnin’. It was remembering everything I wish I could’ve forgotten for good.”

Stiles holds Bucky’s gaze. He’d been aware, on some level, of what Steve and Bucky had been through. He’s read the accounts of war. He knows the details, the facts; he’s read vivid descriptions and horror stories so terrifying simply because they’re true. But he’s never been confronted with it so brutally before. He’s never thought too deeply about the darker stuff Steve would have seen, the things he would have experienced that no person ever should. He’s never imagined Steve in a situation where putting a bullet through a man’s skull was the kinder thing to do, because the alternative was a long, slow, agonizing death from maggot infested wounds. His heart hurts and his mouth tastes sour, but he swallows back the sickness.

“Now you remember,” he manages. “What do you do?”

“I talk to someone.”

“Steve?” 

“Sometimes,” Bucky replies. “Sometimes Tasha. People who have seen the depths of humanity’s depravity, who know just how deep violence can run…they get it. But usually I talk to a therapist.” 

Stiles doesn’t know what his expression does, but whatever it is makes Bucky give a flat little smile.

“That surprises you, huh?” he says.

“You just…dunno. You’re the strong and silent type, I guess.” 

Bucky shrugs. “There’s strength in talkin’ to someone, in gettin’ the help you need to cope. I told you, it takes time to heal, for things to get better. But seein’ someone who can help…it can make that time seem shorter.” Draining the rest of his hot chocolate, he stands and puts the mug in the sink. “Thanks for the drink.”

He walks out of the kitchen, leaving Stiles alone in the muted light, shrouded in silence. He sits there for a while, turning over Bucky’s words in his head, letting them sink in. Finally, he lets loose a deep breath and leans back in his chair, tipping his head towards the ceiling. 

“JARVIS?” he asks, eyes closed. “Can you do me a favour? Can you get hold of Dr Marin Morrell, ask her if she’s free tomorrow afternoon?”

It doesn’t necessarily feel like a step forward, or like any of the weight on his shoulders has been lifted. But, as he slips back into bed and waits for Steve to join him, he can admit that it does feel like a start.

***

Marin Morrell hasn’t changed during the months Stiles was gone.

She sits in the armchair across from him, her legs crossed, her long, glossy hair hanging over one shoulder. She’s wearing boots with tall heels and her slate grey nail polish gleams in the soft, muted light, and she gazes at him with a gentle kind of clinical detachment.

There’s a low, glass-topped table between them, with two cups of coffee on it. Steam curls from them, twisting into the air. The room is quiet; it’s just them and the hushed whistle of wind and snow outside the window. The world outside the glass is a hazy, smudged grey and white haze, isolated by the blizzard; it feels like they’re safely encased in a slow globe. 

When Stiles doesn’t speak, Marin smiles slightly.

“How are you, Stiles?” she asks. Her tone is calm, almost idle, not pushing him into any commitment. They might as well be discussing the weather. 

He pauses, thinking about it, turning over various responses in his mind, and her smile widens a little, eyes lighting up with amusement.

“You’re smart, Stiles,” she points out. “I can see you thinking about it. You’re trying to find the response you think I’m looking for. The correct answer. But there is no correct answer. Only the truth.” 

“There is a correct answer for Coulson,” he counters.

“Coulson didn’t call me,” she reminds him. “You did.” 

“You’re telling me he won’t ask for your thoughts on my mental wellbeing?”

“No. And if he did, I wouldn’t tell him.” Marin holds his gaze. “If Coulson wants a professional assessment performed in order to sign you off for field work, he’ll have to get one of SHIELD’s psychologists to do it. That isn’t my job. I don’t work for him. Anything and everything you say here is strictly confidential, Stiles. You can be honest.”

Stiles nods slightly. He doesn’t say anything and a couple more silent minutes tick by. Marin just waits, flipping a pen idly along the fingers of one hand. 

“You’re trying to convince everyone that you’re fine,” she says eventually. “Because that’s what you’re used to. Hiding it. Concealing it. Aren’t you?”

“I _am_ fine,” he says automatically. 

“Are you?”

“Yes.”

“Really? Because very few people in your line of work are genuinely fine. That’s why organisations like SHIELD work with people like me.” She leans forward slightly. “The things you do, the things you see and experience in the job you do…no one comes out of that fine. That’s what I’m for. To help you compartmentalise, to help you cope and find healthy outlets, rather than bottling it up.” She tilts her head. “After everything you went through, I’d be more concerned if you _were_ actually fine.”

“So, what you’re saying is, talking helps?” he says dryly. 

“You called me,” she repeats. “This only works if you talk to me. So, what would you like to talk about?”

That stumps him. He’d called her, asked if her offer from all those months ago still stood; he’d been the one to arrange this session. He needs to talk. He needs help and support; he knows he does. But he has no idea where to even start. 

“It’s okay,” Marin encourages. “Anything.” 

“Bristol.” It trips off his tongue before he even fully realises it’s what he wants to say.

“Bristol,” she echoes, nodding. “The girl. Hanna Taylor.”

“Yeah. The guy who…” he stops, takes a deep breath. “What he did?”

“The mind control,” she says carefully, and he flinches.

“Yeah. That. But not just that. What he planned to do to her.” He swallows. “It…the mind control, when he tried it on me, the fear I felt, the _horror_ , it was so…so fucking _visceral_. I was right back there with Julia again. But what he was attempting to do, it – it affected me. Badly. It really fucking shook me up.”

“Because it resonated with you.”

He frowns. “What? No, that doesn’t…”

“Julia Baccari violated you,” she says gently. “She stripped you of your autonomy, of your consent, of your own will. She used you and hurt you.”

He curls his fingers into his palms. “She didn’t -.”

“Not physically,” she agrees. “But it’s understandable that Hanna Taylor’s situation still resonated with you. It’s understandable that it brought up that trauma.”

Frowning, Stiles looks down at his hands. “I hurt him. Badly.”

“You stopped him from hurting anyone else.”

“I _wanted_ to make him hurt,” he insists.

She nods slightly. “Do you feel guilty?” 

He pauses, then admits, “No. But I’m scared. Of myself, of what I’m capable of. The things I did while I was with Julia…I hurt and killed innocent people.”

“Have you seen the evidence SHIELD gathered against Julia Baccari?” Marin asks. “The proof of mind control?”

“No. No, I…I haven’t asked to see it.”

“Perhaps you should,” she suggests. “It might help you come to terms with what happened to you. It might help you accept that what happened wasn’t your fault. You are not to blame, Stiles.”

“But I was myself when I hurt that man.”

“If you’re scared of the things you might be capable of, then all you can do is focus on being better than that. On not giving in to it. Focus on helping people, but focus on yourself, too.” She picks up her mug, taking a sip. “You have a strong support network, don’t you?”

“Yeah. But…it’s hard. To talk to them, to talk about it all. Even with Steve. He wants me to be honest with him, he wants to know what happened to me and what I did while I was gone, he wants to be there for me, but…I just can’t.”

“Why do you think that is?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know.”

“Do you trust Steve?” 

Frowning, Stiles says, quickly, “Of course I do. I trust him with my life.”

“But do you _trust him_? Emotionally?” she persists.

“I…” he stops. “I think so.”

“You trusted Julia and she violated that. She hurt you deeply. You’ve struggled with trust issues in the past, haven’t you?” She curls her fingers around her mug. “But can you trust Steve to listen and to not judge you? Can you trust that he won’t hurt you?”

He opens his mouth. Closes it again. He takes the time to think about it, _really_ think about it, searching within himself for the real, honest answer. He gives a shaky exhale.

“I can try,” he says finally, and she smiles.

“That’s all any of us can do,” she agrees.

***

Stiles’s back hits the mat, his breath leaving him in a sharp ‘ _oof_ ’.

The knee on his chest doesn’t press down, just lingers until he gives a quick tap of his fingers against the mat; then it lets up, Steve straightening easily to his feet. Flushed and grinning, he offers a hand to help Stiles up, pulling him to his feet with zero effort. 

“You’re not that rusty,” he remarks. 

Stiles shakes his head. “I am. But I’m mostly struggling because I feel safe with you.”

“And that’s a bad thing?” he asks.

“No. No, but.” Stiles frowns, looking away. “During those months I was away, I had to fight hard, had to be the best, had to _win_ , because I had no choice. Even when I went on missions with SHIELD, I had a team with me. I had people I trusted right behind me, which made those life-or-death situations easier. But I was on my own. No back up. I had to do whatever I needed to in order to survive.” He shrugs. “Now I’m home. I have those people I trust again. I feel safe. It’s harder to…to want to fight that hard now I don’t have to. I know it’s stupid, but -.”

“It’s not,” Steve interrupts gently. “I get it.”

“But I have to fight that hard again. Kate won’t hold back, so I need to make sure I won’t either.”

“You know I won’t let her hurt you,” he says quietly. “I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

“I know.” Reaching out, Stiles rests a hand on Steve’s chest, right over where one of the bullets had cleaved straight through him. “I’m more concerned about her hurting the people I love.”

Steve cups the back of Stiles’s neck, drawing him into a slow, lingering kiss. When he steps back, he nods and falls into a defensive stance again.

“Okay,” he says. “So fight harder.”

Blowing out a breath, Stiles allows his body to adjust into its own stance, trying to push everything else aside in order to focus. JARVIS has the gym’s temperature perfectly adjusted; the heating isn’t high enough to make them sweat too much or feel uncomfortable, but the sharp cold of the snow and wind outside the tower doesn’t touch them, either. 

Flat winter sunlight fills the room, limning Steve’s jaw and throwing parts of the room into muted shadows, and Stiles feels so far removed from all of the places he’s spent time in over the last few months. He feels comfortable and safe.

He feels at home.

They spar, and it’s almost a relief how quickly and easily Stiles falls back into it, his body remembering his training, his brain remembering Steve’s fight patterns and defensive moves. He knows Steve is going easy on him. He always does when they train together; if he used his full strength, Stiles would be down for the count pretty damn quickly. But he’s being even more deliberate than usual, accommodating for the fact that Stiles hasn’t trained with him for over a year, and there’s something a little frustrating yet oddly endearing about it.

He blocks a strike, circling his wrist to throw Steve’s arm aside, which opens him up to the hard side kick Stiles delivers to his thigh. He adjusts quickly, shifting his weight so his leg doesn’t crumple beneath him, but it puts him off balance enough for Stiles to land a blow to his sternum with enough force to knock Steve back a step. He presses forward, following with a quick double jab, one to Steve’s kidney, the other aimed for his ribs, but Steve blocks it with the barest of winces to show that the first punch had any effect. 

Steve twists Stiles into a hold, his arm locked just below his throat, his front to Stiles’s back. Stiles knows that trying to fight free from his grip will be like trying to break an iron bar and there’s no slack to try and squeeze free, so he drops his head and presses his teeth against the skin of Steve’s wrist. He has no intention of actually biting him, but Steve flinches automatically, and that’s enough of a distraction for Stiles to then slam his head back, right into Steve’s nose. Turning, he lifts his hands into a guard, but Steve is faster, leg snapping into a side kick to Stiles’s knee before extending to deliver a second kick to his sternum. He uses a fraction of his actual strength, but it’s still enough to throw Stiles back. He tucks back into a roll, popping up onto his feet just in time to rock to the side, avoiding Steve’s aerial kick. 

A palm strike to Steve’s throat knocks him off course when he tries a follow up kick and Stiles gives a second and a third blow in quick succession, right to Steve’s solar plexus. His fourth punch is stopped by fingers snagging around his wrist, and then he’s turned and flipped right over Steve’s hip, landing with a grunt on the mat. 

His thigh is burning. It’s not as bad as when Natasha landed a direct strike to it; Steve’s been deliberately avoiding hitting too close to the scar. The pain doesn’t make his skin prickle with hot sweat or his vision go spotty, but it’s still sharp enough to demand his attention, and he’s winded from his impact with the ground. Steve’s not even out of breath, but he doesn’t take advantage of Stiles’s position, doesn’t follow up to pin Stiles to end the match, and it makes Stiles grit his teeth. Instead of waiting for his diaphragm to stop seizing, he kips back up to his feet, stepping into a defensive guard.

Steve frowns. “Take a minute,” he advises.

“Do you think Kate will give me a minute?” Stiles counters. “Or Ward, or Deucalion? Bad guys don’t hold back, Steve. They don’t let up. And they don’t allow you a minute to get your breath back.”

“No,” he allows. “But -.”

“But nothing. Stop trying to protect me all the time.” Stiles softens his tone to lessen the harshness of his words, but he still feels like shit when Steve’s jaw tightens a fraction. “I survived Julia. I survived being out there on my own when Deucalion was after me. I don’t need you to protect me all of the time, Steve.”

“No,” he says again. “You don’t. You’re one of the strongest people I know, and I don’t just mean in a fight. But just because you don’t need me to protect you doesn’t mean I won’t do my damndest to protect you anyway. And it doesn’t mean I’ll push you so hard during training that you’d be useless out in the field.”

Stiles exhales slowly. “You’re right,” he murmurs. “Sorry.”

Steve steps forward, hands lifting to frame Stiles’s face. His thumb sweeps across Stiles’s jaw and Stiles closes his eyes, leaning into his touch. It settles something inside of him. As much as he doesn’t want Steve to constantly protect him – especially when doing so gets him riddled with bullets - he can admit that he’s never felt safer than when Steve holds him like this. 

But he knows Steve and he knows exactly what he’s doing, so he’s expecting it when Steve suddenly lowers his hands to Stiles’s shoulders, his foot hooking around Stiles’s calf so he can knock him back to the ground, and he’s already reacting, slinging his leg over Steve’s hip and corkscrewing his body so he takes Steve down with him. 

Steve’s back hits the mat and Stiles lands on top of him. He brackets his knees either side of Steve’s hips and catches his wrists, pulling them up above his head to pin them to the ground, and he knows Steve is letting him, but it just adds to the thrill. 

Smiling, he sits back slightly. “Nice try.”

Steve gazes at him. His wrists flex slightly, but he doesn’t break Stiles’s grip. He could easily throw Stiles off with a snap of his hips, but he doesn’t do that, either. His eyes darken as he looks up at Stiles, his expression raw with intent, and it steals Stiles’s breath even more than his earlier impact with the ground had done. 

Quicker than a blink, Steve sits up, his own knees coming up to keep Stiles balanced. Stiles doesn’t even realize that his grip on Steve’s wrists has been broken until he finds his fingers tangled in Steve’s shirt, dragging him closer until their lips press together. Steve inhales sharply, one of his hands grazing up Stiles’s side to cup the back of his neck, and he opens his mouth to the press of Stiles’s tongue, his other arm whipping around Stiles’s waist.

The kiss is deep and frenzied, and Stiles is the first to reluctantly break it so he can breathe. He doesn’t go far, though. Cupping Steve’s jaw, he gazes at him, taking in the soft, open look in Steve’s blue eyes. It’s not just want; it’s more than that. It’s _awe_. He looks at Stiles with such unrestrained awe and it makes Stiles’s heart ache in the best way possible.

“I love you,” he murmurs, and Steve’s eyes flutter shut, like he’s savouring the words.

“I love you too.”

Steve kisses him again, slow and sweet, and Stiles sinks into it, lets everything else simply fall away until the only thing in the world that matters is the sensation of Steve’s mouth on his own and the strength of Steve’s arm around his waist. When he feels Steve’s fingers slide under his shirt, though, he tenses before he can help it, and Steve pulls back to look at him.

“Sorry,” Stiles mutters. “Just…the last time we got naked together and you saw the scars, you ended up walking out.”

Steve’s brows draw together. “That wasn’t about the scars,” he says. “You know that.”

Stiles nods. He does know that. He’s not self-conscious about his body or his scars. He’d known going into SHIELD that he’d probably end up with more scars, mental and physical, and he’s not ashamed of the new marks on his body. Honestly, he couldn’t give a damn about them, and he knows Steve couldn’t care less about them either, not in regard to his attraction to Stiles or the appearance of Stiles’s body. But he does see them as a failure on his part to protect Stiles, sees them as evidence of suffering Stiles went through when Steve wasn’t there, and Stiles can’t bear to be looked at like that, can’t bear to see Steve’s guilt. 

He left. He chose to leave. He chose to run and he chose to keep running, even after he was ambushed by Deucalion’s guys in Arizona. He’s more than a failure on Steve’s part to keep someone he loves safe and it grates to be looked at that way.

“I know,” he says. “It was about what they represent.”

“It was about you hiding what happened to you,” Steve replies quietly. “You didn’t want to tell me about any of it.”

“Do you know many people in our line of work who _don’t_ bottle things up?” he points out. “You don’t talk much about the war. Not the real stuff, anyway. Not the fucked up stuff.”

Steve pauses, then: “Fair,” he acknowledges. “I’m trying not to push you. I just…I want to be able to help you.”

“You are. Just being here, being _you_ , that’s helping me.” Stiles leans in, gently pressing their foreheads together. “I’m trying too, you know. But it’ll take time. Can you be patient?”

Steve’s mouth quirks into a dry little smile. “I’ve spent a hell of a long time waiting for you,” he says, but there’s no heat in the words. “Yeah. I can be patient.”

“Thank you.”

He dips in, pressing a brief kiss to Steve’s mouth, and then pulls away to push up to his feet. Steve looks a little reluctant as he follows, but he automatically adjusts his stance into a defensive position when he sees Stiles raise his own hands into a guard.

“So,” Stiles says, and smiles. “Best of three?”

**Author's Note:**

> \---> allirica on tumblr; come say hi? :)


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